my breathing intact, I walked slowly with a bedroll in my hands
and the deputy guided me to cell number eight, in the corner
where I would fight tears after unrolling my pack.
a single gray blanket with holes,
a single cream colored sheet for my mat,
a single white towel for the shower I dared not take
but rolled over my eyes
to stain with mascara,
to soften the blow of oxygen on my capillaries
they might very well have needed a break.
a single cup and a spoon for my food,
a single generic toothpaste,
a single generic toothbrush,
a single generic black comb,
this is the ordinance for all
and for those who often call this home.
the toilet seats had no screws,
they were a molded piece of steel or iron or titanium
and I wonder where they were made.
the bunk beds were blue and soldered together,
there were no screws in them either.

The noises were loud.
Because everything is heavy.
And industrial.
And manicured so clean.

the women however are nosy and strange,
yet how can I be so prudish and judgmental
with my being the same?
the stories inside are not soldered together
and the screws that bind them together come undone.
the people that sleep hear the hum of stark white light above,
here they breathe in the smell of carbon in the air
and instinctively ruffle their feathers when the doors are clicked open.