Their feet are glue-sticks
adhered to paper cells. Inside,
they breathe

faster than what lips can exhale. The
heart, darkened by crimes
committed. What

is done is what got them there. A thief,
murderer, rapist—
they combine

to live the rest of their days inside
of filth & neglect. Lives have
a monotonous rhythm:

awaken to the sound of wood to metal,
shower, eat, work, sleep. They
are forgotten

pieces of skin, tattooed on each other’s
souls. To make them move,
force is needed. They

slither in line, shackled, looked at with
an impassioned hate. No sun
is bright enough

to birth a smile. It is a constant
rain that clouds the coming
moments. & soon, they

will die. Concrete graves of mistakes
lying atop each other: the only
closeness before disposing.