they said

“bitch, you’re in prison”

as if

this most salient of facts

jump-suited in sallowing orange

had, even for a moment

escaped my attention

in situation inescapable,

conferring status inhuman.

they snarled

“bitch, you’re in prison”

when I dared suggest,

with temerity

unbefitting caged station,

conversational decorum

contravening jailhouse crudity,

because after all

what do you expect here?

they scoffed

“bitch, you’re in prison”

when I longed

for scintillating discourse

or cerebral stimulation

in lieu of

drama-mongering gossip

and mind-numbing TV,

indicative that jello-brain

is indeed the goal.

they guffawed

“bitch, you’re in prison”

when I scribbled

angsted dreams

upon torn paper scraps

quilled with the clots

of my spurting soul,

mocking the futility

of artistic aspirations.

they assert

“bitch, you’re in prison”

social stratus

lower than dirt

on a slithering snake belly,

cessation of upward mobility