The Prison Waiting Room

No room is filled with as much anticipation as a prison waiting room

When you can feel the walls bend as they inflate with nervous breathe

Here, two-year olds are dressed to the nines 

In pink tutus and bright barbie shirts they fight over the communal lego sticks

Evidently the mothers have tried to paint their loved ones pretty pictures

Posters on the walls grow faces and wag their fingers 

They're mocking me

Predicting my future failure in life

Telling me I have a 40% chance of being depressed and dropping out of school

People begin to bustle around the lady at the desk

The time has come

 

We unravel at the border and lift our hands to the sky,

Calling out as we shed our outer skins.

We are not the chained, dirty, black and white stripes in the cartoons of our childhood

We are not the burning oranges and neon cloth that draw your attention away from our faces

We are not the tired mistaken mugshots that were taken when we stood scared and alone

We are not the grimaces and shame that we're supposed to be

We are not any of those

 

We are simply people 

and all people are crooked

 

 

 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Guide that inspired this poem: 

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