It's Something Called Poetry

Inmate 234120

My life is a routine.

My name is a number.

The reason is simple.

The purpose is over.

My hands are stained no matter how many times I washed them.

My mind is still clouded even after a few years later.

I no longer know the outside world

I no longer remember who I used to be.

My name is now a number.

My life is now a routine.

Her screams still echo in my ears

Her tears still stain my shirt

Her blood still covers my skin

And her body still lies in my hands.

I made a mistake

and I paid the price.

Yet three years later I still remember what we did.

We dragged her body across the house

We stuffed her remains in the truck

And we tried to wash the evidence down the river

Yet I am the only one here.

My home is this cell

My life is nothing more

My freedom is still behind these bars.