A cell is not a home, those bars keep you too far away. We all try not to think about it too much, and like this we keep ourselves sane. We dance around the topic and I pretend not to hear Mom howling at night because if I don't acknowledge it, then it doesn't exist. Has your vision faded to black and white? Do you pretend that if you don't see the colour orange hanging from your body, that you're just in another place? Another empty room? Another lonely night spent with strangers at a location you're trying to make home? You've always liked the way your hair looked long, do you still like it now? Have you began to hate the things you once loved yet? Like cartoons, or colouring books, or the drugs that twisted and knotted your brain cells? The drugs that sent you there? The drugs that keep you there? Have you began to resent every memory you have of us growing up? Who do you see when you have nightmares? Whose name do you curse when you awake in a cold sweat? A cell is not a home and those bars are going to ruin you.