cuffsDuring manic highs you might get into trouble.


All right let’s go.

We drove to the hospital

I told him the cuffs could be tighter.

The camera came out

I wasn’t a convict

Badass jaily with an emotionless face

I smile at the camera

I wasn’t going to be on

Looking like a convict.

I am.




The flash burns my eyes.

How will I get my contacts out tonight?

My bare feet don’t cry at the tiles

Yet the smell sinks beneath my nails.

Greasy clean

Old muck coats the skin.

I lie on the steel bench

And rest my head on the toilet paper roll

I don’t fit on the deck.

I’ll just sleep.

I sit up.

The clock reads 12 pm.

Shit, what about work.

Where’d the time go?



I rolled my wrists left to right

Feeling the cuffs

Searing my skin

The bruises tomorrow make me smile


No pillow

No honest look in the eye.

Too better than me.

Did I say you could walk over there?

I take joy in bowing down as

It rises forth

It which cannot be described

I am no longer I.

I want out.


(I was born and raised in Los Angeles, CA; a car driven city.  Send this to a friend that lives in a city without public transportation, or thinks they can’t afford a cab.)  If you notice,my manic confidence loses itself, when I realize I am not above the law, “I want out.”)

Hands with handcuffs image available from Shutterstock.