Often times when I jolt upright
in the wee hours of the morning,
when I am in the midst of stretching
and yawning, I look around,
startled,
at how nothing is familiar.
The cement walls.
The black sheets.
The desk next to the closet.
These are not mine.
This is not me.
And as panic clenches in the pit
of my stomach,
I remember my choice
to leave,
and the fear subsides,
but agony replaces it.

These are not mine.
This is not me.