I sat cross-legged on the wooden floor
reading rainy books on a sunny day.
The tic tac toe shadows of window grilles
inked my skin in temporary phases
like moving jail bars and strumming guitar;
I was a prisoner in my hollow
whose screams vibrated louder than static
like empty vessels before supper’s served.
My jailor in the mirror, clicking keys,
had a sordid smile as she let me leave.
Can you save yourself when, like sour grapes,
the puppeteer with the forgotten name,
or Pride, reins in your elastic escape?