My Own Private Hell

I gasp for air in my own private hell, the smell of sulfur, cords of toilet paper wicks slowly burning in the cell dark, smoking hideously like some curled dragon with orange burning eyes.

Demons live here, there are three huddled in the corner smoking, cigarettes in their grubby little paws. Dark as the night before the night came, they chatter amongst themselves and plot the doom of the world.

I would rub my eyes but they are already raw from the watering, as if my very essence was being stripped from me, a salty liquid from the sea of pain in my own private hell.

Must I fight to even breathe through a raspy throat or do I dance with the devil to get through hell. I thrust my face and arms yea, my very soul through the bars in search of air so sweet.

So much for no smoking, choking, I close my eyes and dream of a fresh breeze.