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Prometheus’ Punishment
sharp words and your life scripted verbatim,
stringed up high in the puppeteer’s graces, her
scratchy stained words searching for a soul; your
servile spirit supported by that she-devil.
chaos. it’s scripted right? but the director
demands decisive damage. the illusion of kinship
between her breaks—that diluted blood of yours.
sounds never registered at first.
yelps of delight? shrieks of laughter?
the screams for help; birds,
caged and broken, forced to fly but
no wings come to your aid, per usual.
it’s the day that wears you out. threats,
slams, violence make for muddy waters,
grime-filled disgustingness muddles you too.
night is dark with perfection. the four cramped
walls offer solace—you always stare longer like
you were looking for a way in. night never meant
only night. flashlights, candles, fire all
taken as comfort. as the sky began to fall, you seek for
words not on the script. words spill out of books, drown you,
flood your cage. yet, the softness of the hardcovers console and
lull with rhythmic kindness, never berating with harsh hands of anger.
but when the day rises and rips away the black
fabric of night, the four walls shrink.
you don’t get much time to yourself—meals and toilet
breaks give limited, but still, private sanity. she smells the
p*ss and sh*t but only you appreciate the stained tiles of isolation.
tears roll down, sea salt sickness. back to that room.
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