sharp words and your life scripted verbatim,

stringed up high in the puppeteer’s graces, her

scratchy stained words searching for a soul; your

servile spirit supported by that she-devil.

chaos. it’s scripted right? but the director

demands decisive damage. the illusion of kinship

between her breaks—that diluted blood of yours.

sounds never registered at first.

yelps of delight? shrieks of laughter?

the screams for help; birds,

caged and broken, forced to fly but

no wings come to your aid, per usual.

it’s the day that wears you out. threats,

slams, violence make for muddy waters,

grime-filled disgustingness muddles you too.

night is dark with perfection. the four cramped

walls offer solace—you always stare longer like

you were looking for a way in. night never meant

only night. flashlights, candles, fire all

taken as comfort. as the sky began to fall, you seek for

words not on the script. words spill out of books, drown you,

flood your cage. yet, the softness of the hardcovers console and

lull with rhythmic kindness, never berating with harsh hands of anger.

but when the day rises and rips away the black

fabric of night, the four walls shrink.

you don’t get much time to yourself—meals and toilet

breaks give limited, but still, private sanity. she smells the

p*ss and sh*t but only you appreciate the stained tiles of isolation.

tears roll down, sea salt sickness. back to that room.