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ALL I TALK ABOUT IS INCARCERATION
from Exchange, Issue 3
by cusoa
Abigail Cook
Maybe poems don’t have to rhyme anymore. Maybe there doesn’t have to be a meter. Because if things made sense in this world, I wouldn’t be here.
I wouldn’t have ten years of probation for a mistake I made as a teenager. My best friend’s family wouldn’t have to choose to bury or to cremate her.
I wouldn’t have nightmares caked in regret and disgust. I wouldn’t look in your eyes and see only distrust.
I would be a normal woman who crosses her legs and holds a job. I wouldn’t take anti-psychotics because paranoia makes my head throb.
And maybe this doesn’t have an end that is pretty or cinematic. Maybe my story ends quietly and collects dust in an attic.
