The Prison Called Repetition

 You don't need to be in prison

to be a convict. 

All that's necessary 

is consciousness.

Eyes of disgust. 

A stranger's remark.

All I get are variations

of the same snark. 

Did it hurt? 

What do your parents think? 

How will you ever get into heaven?

Bitch!

I haven’t believed in heaven

since I was seven.

My parents,

they gave up a long time ago;

they’re just glad I decided not to go.

And no shit,

It hurt.

Does it hurt to give birth?

Does it hurt to get stabbed?

What stupid fucking questions.

These judgmental questions,

with answers nobody wants to hear,

they leave me trapped

in the prison called repetition.

My mind,

forcing me to answer the questions,

makes me a convict.

The only escape is isolation.