I only know it as a prison, even if I should not. It’s cold inside this prison, the one I call my head. The warden strolls past the cells, her smirk as sharp as knives as she’s only here to punish. I’ve been locked up as long as memory itself, so long that I’ve forgotten who I was before a prisoner. I hear the warden snicker as she walks by. Sometimes I day dream about escaping this hell, and finding the light I so bitterly crave. I dream about plotting my revenge, About striking down the sorrow and her leaving behind, locked up and helpless, and warden of nothing at all.