the blood-stained
dried walls
are my prison,
lit with intense florescent
beams of fake sunshine
that pierce into
my eye sockets--

the others
with their bright
smiles of lips pulled
violently back over teeth
and insistent demands
are my jailors,
content that I do their bidding
so long as things go
their way--

I slide ring slide bag
over and over
and over
with empty words
until my heart
is ready to burst--

customer service
is for drones--