they said
“bitch, you’re in prison”
as if
this most salient of facts
jump-suited in sallowing orange
had, even for a moment
escaped my attention
in situation inescapable,
conferring status inhuman.
they snarled
“bitch, you’re in prison”
when I dared suggest,
with temerity
unbefitting caged station,
conversational decorum
contravening jailhouse crudity,
because after all
what do you expect here?
they scoffed
“bitch, you’re in prison”
when I longed
for scintillating discourse
or cerebral stimulation
in lieu of
drama-mongering gossip
and mind-numbing TV,
indicative that jello-brain
is indeed the goal.
they guffawed
“bitch, you’re in prison”
when I scribbled
angsted dreams
upon torn paper scraps
quilled with the clots
of my spurting soul,
mocking the futility
of artistic aspirations.
they assert
“bitch, you’re in prison”
social stratus
lower than dirt
on a slithering snake belly,
cessation of upward mobility
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