I stare at the ceiling for no reason at all.
I have memorized it crack for crack, categorized each water-damage mark like a map of the stars.
My stars.
My sky.

I hear the drip-drop of a faulty faucet; constant, my only measure of time here.
It doesn’t matter.

At 3,215, my thoughts turn to a familiar scene:
The guards, with their guns like heirlooms,
closing in on a boy
wearing only innocence.

He looks at me, and my gown of apathy;
and his eyes scream, do something
But I turn away.

Sloth alone is the sovereign of my universe.

I could cry,
but that would mean something.