This is a prison, I think the very first time I get there;
I am twelve and the second the door closes,
the sunshine beckons to me,
the birds hum a melody that sounds eerily close to “Jailhouse Rock”,
and I look around into hollow eyes
that appear to have been dimmed from lack of light,
but that’s not all?
they have a false sobriety emanating from their heavily medicated, sullen faces,
and they gaze into nothing,
only reminiscing about a time where they could run free without the restrictions of a subliminal straight jacket holding them back.

I am given a brown paper bag filled with all of my belongings,
more than half of my clothes are gone because the memories they kept in the seams were deemed a risk,
and I am pushed into an examination room where they strip me of my clothes?and my dignity?
counting the scars on my thighs,
and it takes me back to when I was in kindergarten,
learning how to count past twenty?

there are more than twenty.

Every minute that passes my tongue ties around itself,
like the the rope-burn coiled around my neck,
serpentry my new dwelling place because for once,
they believed me when I said I was going to jump to my death.

I don’t belong here.

But, there I was, lying in a bed of regret,
water drips from the sink,
echoing throughout the makeshift cell built on lunacy,
and I couldn’t sleep,
instead of telling me to count sheep,
they drug me up,
zombify me in hopes that I would walk out of my restlessness someone new,
as if my former melancholic state wasn’t good enough.

This is a prison.

Now I am sixteen,
I lose myself to an endless internal war,
should I distort my reflection just to contort to his idea of perfection?

I am bones,
a broken home,
and I’m strangely content with the fractures,
because to me it’s still a sign that I can feel,
even if I’m a little empty.

The scars never get a chance to fade,
I’m always tracing over them with new ones,
courtesy of my blade.

And those same vacant expressions haunt me,
watching me like I’m their prey,
new meat put on display,
but I am my own butcher.

We talk,
and we all have our demons,
some of them come from their pasts,
some come from their heads,
some come from under their beds.

But, we’re hiding,
this place is the ocean that we delve deep into,
holding our breaths in fear of drowning.

I never wanted to die,
only prolong my misery,
that’s the difference between them and me,
I embrace it,
they run away from it.

I’ve lived far too long in darkness to go chasing light,
light has to find me before I can trust it.

I’ve got my pocket full of secrets,
hearing my heartbeat in my ear,
as they shine a light in my room to ensure that I haven’t moved,
I think to myself:

This is a prison and I don’t belong here.