A Prisoner's Text

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When the devil can’t reach you,

he sends a narcissist. 

—Romario

 

THIS IS A PRISONER’S TEXT.

 

This is a prisoner’s text, composed in a reality that is no longer my own. My mind feeds on incessant untruths, fed to it by my captor, the one who loves me the most.

 

This is a prisoner’s text birthed by lust and madness, weaved into a web of deception that keeps me snug and warm.

 

This is a prisoner’s text, written by an anguished hand which no longer possesses the will to live. It is too late. I am too far gone. Yet, live I must.

 

This is a prisoner’s text, but if you are reading it, it is already too late; I am already gone. These are words on a page that will soon float as freely on the wind, as the ashes of my corpse.

 

This was a prisoner’s text; a plea to my jailer; a voice for the voiceless; wings for the fallen.

 

This is an ex-prisoner’s text, the parting words of a homicide victim. This is a ghost’s wail; a butterfly’s whisper; the soft breeze that kisses your neck on a warm spring day.

 

This is me; finally free.   








 google.com, pub-5896944412523933, DIRECT, f08c47fec0942fa0


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