Prisoner

Locked away,

sitting in a cell,
hearing the outside world
through a phone.

Trapped in the noise
of other voices.

“Shut the fuck up!”

All I can do is wait
for the next chance
to catch another episode of life—
that illusion of freedom
still freer than me.

“Hey man, pass me that hot plate.”

“Fuck you, Nigga.
I’m trying to sleep.”

But all I’m really trying to do
is imagine holding you.
Then creeping into that thought
comes the question
of who might be taking my place.

“Fuck you, Nigga!”

Hell ain’t fire
or some red muthafucka with a pitchfork.
Hell is being told when to eat,
when to move,
when to go to recess
with the rest of the captives.
Hell is shitting in the kitchen
while “peanut butter, peanut butter, jelly”
loops in your skull
all fuckin’ day long.

Still, I dream of
cuddling you,
kissing the back of your neck,
wiping your tears,
making love to you until night gives out,
feeling the cold and the warmth of your skin,
smelling your sweat,
watching a movie
as we doze into bliss.

I’m stuck in hell
like George Jackson,
waiting for time to pass.
Waiting for the chance
to prove my innocence.

I know I fucked up.
I did.
I have before.
But this time—
I am innocent.

Fuck track records.
Patterns are the bars to my cell.

All I want
is to hold you
and say,
“Baby, everything may not be all right,
but while I’m here,
I’ll help you through it.”

But I’m stuck.
My actions invited my absence.
I am not by your side.

I set you free.
I let you go.
Maybe I never had you.

A journey into a new realm.

Prisoner.
A gift.
A tool.