I dropped my pencil. Trance broken.
Sketches were left on the white sheets —
Incomplete, portraits with no eyes.
Houses with no roofs.
A heavy key clangs, cell chosen randomly.
Officers open the door. Pack of hyenas.
“Cell search, step out,” one says.
I step out on the tier. They make a mess.
Throwing all my sketches in the trash.
My food, my toiletry, everything.
My fire ignites.
10 minutes later, “Step back inside,”
Said the same officer.
“No, I wanna speak to a sergeant,” I said.
“You’re not speaking to no one.”
“Then I’m not moving.”
“Turn around — you deaf? Turn around!”
Then slammed me on the floor.
Disobeying a direct order, accused of assault.
They had reign, I had nothing.
Winning felt like losing. Dignity
Felt like 30 days in the hole.
Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.