this is not a metaphor

fuck you, I mutter to the birds who
fly past the window as I sit on a
mattress ripped bare by nightmares.
I am trapped in this rectangular
mass of muted shades & ugly flowers,
capable only of eating in small bites.
dear Ben Gibbard, what's your advice?
what am I supposed to do when I leave?
I don't have any skills. I can't fly.
So what do I do? I can't stay...no.
I can't leave. I'm stuck here..
staring though the glass at the
mass exit of feathers off the fence.
make me a bird. I want to be a bird.