looping lush nightmare.
The prison walls are made of desert sand burnt yellows and
umbers, golden in the sun, decaying for centuries.
There are guard towers, the windows hollow black brown eyes,
unmanned, there is no need. As I've said, every day is like the first,
every face, slightly familiar, still is a stranger, every step is on new
territory, fear is fresh and crisp.
Every day I am surprised to find myself here. Every day sorrow
swarms around my soul like first love. Drunk in the poison of my
own guilt (but for what).
Every day starts as a mystery.
Every day all is revealed.
Every day I clutch at strangers, press my body to the walls, looking
for escape, recognition, redemption.
Every day I look up to the towers, the endlessly high walls and
wonder at the light on the other side and plot, invent, countless
escapes. The walls are in a state of decrepitude. You could scratch
yourself out, if you had the strength, the will, if you could find the
point, if someone would help, could help.
There is grudging respect from the men; for my intelligence, my
open wound of a soul, the tears that endlessly fall from my eyes,
they know I am not to be tampered.
If I take a moment from the self absorption in my fate, from the
endless praying the plots for escape,. I have recognized/sensed the
hint of shame, my fellow prisoners have, of me.
attempt escape/redemption from it."
This is what is after all.
At this moment and only this moment do I feel shame in my
bravery, self consciousness paralyzes me.
I am no one's bitch.