Artwork, “Frames 7” by Alexa Gaffaney
Notes from the prison house
This is my mental angst.
They said my sentence wasn’t that severe.
They lied to me again! Did they?
They lied…did they?
“Maybe you won’t be here that long.”
(Yeah, maybe. Fuck that!)
I can’t even remember how I got here.
Was I condemned? For what?!
Was I sentenced? For what?!
I know one thing for sure – perverted Cartesian that I am –
I don’t like it here.
“You can leave” (they tell me). “There are no guards.”
(Something holds me here. I try to find the entrance,
I fall…deeper. I don’t care about my wounds.)
Did it matter when I thought I cared?
Does it matter when the darkness seems to recede?
There are times…when someone gives me joy…ignores my shame.
They said there is a key.
They said that they don’t have it.
They said…do I believe them?
“You don’t have it, but it can be found.”
There are no guards within this prison house.