prison.

no one is born in prison,
some in waiting,
some in holding,
but no one is born in prison.

waiting can last for a few days,
to arrest us for crying too loud,
for a flustered first breath.
holding can bring tears and
scarred forearms, but only last a few seconds.

the whole world smiles at you,
but holds your hands behind your back.
from licorice ties to metal knots,
fresh fruit to torn underwear;
men and women grin,
but know they hold your heart
in contaminated fingers.

burrowing their nails deep,
forcing almond-tasting idiocy
farther into tender muscle
upon loving caress,
we are incessantly in prison –

we just aren’t born there.