I am a prisoner. Caged by foolish devotion. I shift my weight, the ancient cot beneath me groaning in protest. I pay it no notice, my attention fixated on the open cell door. “Just walk out.” My mind whispers. “Let’s leave. We’ve been here for so long,” it pleads. My bonds are as insubstantial as air and as damming as gravity, pulling souls back to earth that are tugged by heaven. But I and my mind both know it is not the bars that keep me here. I built the bars. To keep you out. You sit there, in your jailer’s chair. You seem bored, almost vacant, but I know you’re watching me. Watching me, watching you. Patiently waiting for the day I muster the courage to walk past you, out the door, and out of your life. What you see as a prison, I see as a shelter. These bars I wrought from my pain. I poured out my anger like lead, shaped them with my good intentions, and cooled them with bitter tears. Each bar is hollow, filled with my hopes and dreams for us. A skeletal monument to what I thought we could be. It’s bones as bare as our future. I was happy to be in your custody. Foolishly believing that by belonging to you, you would also belong to me. I cheerfully gave up my personal effects. Pouring my identity into your sterile ziplock bag. Watching your clever fingers slide across the seal, suffocating all that was mine. You stripped me bare and watched impersonally as the scalding water washed away my dignity, my self worth, my strength. I remember the first twinges of panic as I watched them circle the drain, slipping though the rusted holes. The towel you throw at me, I use to wipe away the vestiges of who I was. It falls to the ground, heavier than before, damp with the sum of my yesterday’s. The orange jump suit you hand me is folded crisply. As clean and impersonal as the expression on your face. You withdraw your hands, your thumb brushes my pinky. Did you feel it!? The current?! My eyes spark with hope. You must have felt it! We are electric, you and I. But if I am electricity, you are rubber. You entertain my current, but you are not affected by it. You lead me to my cell. I drag behind, my gaze burning into the back of your head. Desperately trying to divine the thoughts within. What am I to you? Why do you even need me? I came to you willingly, begging your captivity, but if I am nothing to you, why keep me. Is your prison not cluttered enough? You stop at the open cell door, stepping back, allowing me to enter ahead of you. I hesitate and then enter into your imprisonment. Turning around, I face you. And for the first time, you look me in the eye. You don’t want me, do you? But you can have me, and there is the allure. You grow frustrated with wanting what you cannot have. I am salve on a bullet wound. I cannot heal you, but I bring some measure of relief. But did you ever consider that salve runs out, and then there will be nothing left of me. You walk to your jailer’s chair, and you assume the position. The waiting position. The watching position. Who am I now but your prisoner? Your daily occupation. A cruel pastime. And so I sit. Giving you what you need, leaving nothing for myself. And I realize, that you could do this forever… But I cannot. You see, you stripped my skin, but you left my soul. And oh it burns. It vibrates within me. It resents this cage, these walls that I’ve built, and your mocking watchfulness. And for the first time in a long time, I spark. And this time, I am not hindered by your rubbery touch. And my spark skitters gleefully up and down these bars that I have made. And they heat with it’s excitement, bending to it’s suggestion. “Let’s go,” it coaxes. “Let’s run.” So prepare yourself, my impersonal jailer, there’s going to be a prison break, and I am going to level you, like you leveled me. But don’t worry, I’m more merciful than you. I take no prisoners… Alive. •shyladenae•
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