Incompetent at Life

I'd whimper

'This place'

This place 
Where sorrow fell
Theoretically speaking.

I would whisper solemnly 
To the innards I crafted.

My curtains are always drawn.
And nails- overgrown thickets
I'm thirsty as my need to be here, 
Is dry.

This skin of mine
Keeps crawling when my hands
Meet.

They know things.
Things, 

I cannot yet answer.