pAin

2:41 a.m. Sweating in this prison, built by me condemned by me. Jury, Judge and Executioner cold, congealed food served on a plastic plate. The female who cooks and serves it to me reminds me of who and why I hate. I try to save each of my teardrops in a styrofoam cup but they slowly evaporated because the air around me is fucked. Metal rusted, paint peeling; a dark, decrepit depressed essence brings forth the same feelings. Thumb the button the white sheep exit and set up quietly. Flick the switch we welcome the automated sun two floors up. This lets us know it's time to eat unmashed potatoes, bruised fruit and gelatinous meat. Orange spots stain the tiled floor where a boisterous, overbearing man was maced days before. Nothing but a memory and conversation for another day.