Goodbye, goodbye, I hate the word. Solitude has long since turned brown and withered, sitting bitter in my mouth and heavy in my veins.

The speaker recoils from “goodbye” because it crystallizes loss into a single, final syllable. The repetition suggests both disbelief and compulsion: the word must be said, yet it is hated for what it performs—severance. The imagery of solitude “turned brown and withered” treats loneliness like organic matter left too long, no longer merely empty but decayed and rancid. By locating bitterness “in my mouth” and heaviness “in my veins,” the line makes isolation bodily: grief is tasted, and abandonment circulates like a toxin. Overall, the passage frames farewell not as a clean ending but as a lingering, internalized corrosion.