Prison blues my lips, whispers at night;
she tells me (in third person), “Merry Sadness.”
She addresses me as a cast-off pile of approaches, of beaten down words, as a bore in a prison library closed off, full of asbestos.
She knows me as the edged weapons that pierce, as the bled-out time served for the most savaged of criminal hearts.
She inhabits the fog, herds inmates to chow—pretends that I’m hard, pretends I don’t know the inner makings of her.
She is the melted green toothbrush that splits my blue skin; so, I bleed where I stand, so, I finger-paint her refrain: