Torrential rain

I am open. My clothes stink of cigarettes. My hairs rough and tangled. My eyes are sore. The voices I hear are grinding. I am sick. I cannot think. I cannot feel. My fingers are thick. I am the victim. My eyes are sore. I am giving in. This light is not bright enough. Let there be more light. This battery is dead. I am shutting this machine down once and for all. I wish I was a warm machine. I wish my hands were branches. I wish I had feathers. My eyes are sore. I cannot see anymore. I am shutting this machine down.