My mothers friend gave her a gift when I had yet to understand what life was like outside, a tiny prism set upon the top of a bookshelf against a small window, and when the sun would start to set it would cast beautiful rainbows against the walls.

And it would cast beautiful rainbows against the walls of my insides, making me get a taste of the outside.

The prism was prison bars.
Four by six in the pocket of my mother as I got older.

And she held me and closed the shudders of my mind and I called her smother.

Somedays the prism was reflections of the outside world reflecting on me, some days I was the prism taking in the outside world that I perceived.