Stuck in a dry mouth prison,
I swallowed the key
to ease the pressure,
in a half-measured effort
to convince you that I'm not
Too tired to lay down,
but not to smile
through the bars of
Teeth that clench in hidden anxiety;
the extremity of which is bid by
Stares that slide from me
onto scarred cell walls
and coloured chalk
of all the fun I could've had
if not for
Security cameras I fear
enough to never reach outside the bars;
even though their lenses
Never look at me, for I'm unreachable
behind lock and key — never mind the
Clock that ticks whenever I'm unable
to break the silence
or light a match in the violent darkness
of solitary confinement;
when all I see is
Your closed eye
watching through the keyhole,
one whole world away
from my
Cell that fills with freezing rain
that grips my lungs
like tons of
Bricks laid by my
hands that twist and tap
against the floor of
Dirt that bubbles up
above my
Head that spins
with guilt for what I've built
around myself when
I stop myself from speaking.