I titled this word document:
It’s become a habit.
A triggering one, to say the least
because all I wish for is to know
when what fuels such writing ends.

I feel like I’m in a bathroom, constipated.
But I’m in death row and see no point
in proving my worth to you by
or washing my hands,
or memorizing the back of the shampoo bottle
that you read when you forget your phone.

I say it’s because I have better things
to do.
And I do but I kind of
don’t do those either.
It’s just so hard
to give a shit
when I know it’s all going to end
and nothing feels right anymore.

There’s the rebels
who scream: “fuck the system”
and steal
and shampoo bottles.
They compare their amenities
in their cells with no running water
and they can’t even read.

There’s also me.
My eating habit
actually postponed
my death this time.
I flushed anyway.
Partly because an officer
was standing outside the bathroom door,
and partly because
I feel sorry
for the next guy.
Maybe this one won’t find himself in
a pre-made pile of shit.


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