purple paint with a white trim, weighs heavy on the
thin walls. kernels of stucco cannot muffle the flush of yawning pipes.
i was a prisoner in this “room,” but i left the cell doors wide open.
i held the keys in my grip as i rocked myself to sleep.
i drew trees and vines on my wall. like a wild thing,
i went on adventures when no one was watching.
i sailed in the pages of my books: stories of damsels in distress and
roguish men with sculpted chests and bulging biceps. i planned my escape:
blueprints of my routes were heavily designed and uncanny.
i never had the balls to leave–out there, where things got dicey
and anything can happen. in here, this room, nothing happens.
in my books, the story ends. in my writings, i am God, so i can’t leave.
i won’t leave because i am safe here– in this room where i am comfortable.
i grow fatter by the day. instead of tally marks, i count chips.
i count how many books i’ve read in a month and watch
as the number of friends disappear. i wish i could rip up the floors
and make a nest. i wish i could die and be born again. as a bird…
so i could always be free and never again feel constricted.
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 