I was imprisoned for a crime I did not commit. I endure my sentence. No choice.
Sometimes I’m calm, thinking, “Yeah this isn’t so bad...If I don’t look at it too closely.” And other times? It varies.
I often scream soundlessly. Or I play wildly imaginative games with people too virtual to be real, pretending I’m someone else, in some other place. Anywhere but here.
Always fearing the guards discovering. Punishing me more.
The bars to my cell are a constant, inescapable reminder, that there is only one way *out.* My crime? *I* was born. Life is my prison.