Dear 2UP: why you gotta do me like that? You provide no privacy, I can’t even put up a sheet or curtain to block me from groggy inmates and staff stalking by. The way you position me is like when busy minded people walk by department store displays on the street. Except this is internment, the oldest American experience. The blind assassins are loud clumsy ignorant addicts and classless. Their jokes aren’t even funny. The light above my head gives me headaches. It’s brighter than the sun, perfect for the tweekers. Fractions of my skull adjust to the chaos. This is war—a combat zone. You used to provide me with more refuge, a small sense of security because prisons aint never safe. It gives an illusion of safety. But you are a lesser of evils, so I do appreciate that. You’re a trench, I a soldier. You provide loose cover. You’re lumpy, gray, flat, ugly but still here for me. You allow a spiritual beam to shine from heaven to my heart. I love that most about you. Get ready though because I am about to leave you forever.
Sincerely, Tomiekia |