Prison
by Dan J. Evans
White lights
unblinking from above
in the little room they gave me
for fighting myself.
The smell of pure alcohol
stinging my nostrils with its bland purity
in the little room they gave me
for fighting myself.
Telephones clanging during the day
a clock ticking at night
a camera in the corner
and a small nightstand
with the corners sanded off
in the little room they gave me
for fighting myself.
Love waves goodbye
as the door closes tight,
and I sat silently the first night
in a foreign bed
occupied by the ghosts
of countless other crazy ones
lost and wandering
in their own minds.
But I reminded myself
that even though I was alone
alone is not the end.
I read I ate I slept (or tried to)
I counted the seconds of the minutes of the hours of the days
until I could breathe the air
unpolluted by the pure alcohol
until I could freely feel
the silence of my small street
the warmth of the cozy home we had made
the promise in the night sky we stared into
and the sound of your voice
knowing now what I really was.
You still smile
as if nothing changed.
And in the sterile, still prison
of
Nothing
you are the warmth
I found
in the little room they gave me
for fighting myself.
