Prison Gates

I miss cooking. It was just canned soup, but it was ok. I don’t cry. It could be the meds. Or the cracks in the walls. The showers. Are cold at first, but we learn to wait. We have crossword puzzles to scribble on. My mom calls me everyday. I beg her to go home, but I’m weakening. She picks me up on a Friday. Lumpy bags filled with what is mine. I learned to sleep with no comfort. I learned gratitude and other things. The cure would be to stay locked up forever. But instead, we drive away. As if running away from a tornado. The spikes of prison gates. Are like splinters inside me.