I have always enjoyed writing, note making and words. If I write something down it helps me to remember. Jotting books and a million ‘borrowed’ biros are always in my handbag, my cupboards filled with journals and half hearted diary entries from what should be every day of the year. I’ve been revisiting my prison poems, if you will call them that. This is a harrowing reminder of a night that caused me great trauma….
While I’m sat in a dim light
contemplating dimmer life
the girl next door was attempting suicide
taking her own life
I knocked on her door and pressed the panic alarm
this teenage girl emerged with blood for an arm
in life we were strangers
in prison we were neighbours
my reaction was hysterical
for her, this was recreational
self harm was escape from a world
that had harmed her
she was an arsonist
meanwhile I was trying to remain my calmest
my sweating palm emerging into a fist
a nurse was called out to bandage her up
then it was back to bang up
back in my cell
I thought her reality must be hell
a suicidal arsonist, clearly unwell
banged up next door
in a cell
2 hours later I was back on the bell
insisting on checks
I didn’t want to make myself
I couldn’t sleep in fear
of waking up to death
witnessing such vulnerability
I couldn’t rest
this was mental torcher put to the test
her body was scars
I don’t know where she’s going
but I hope its far
far from the hurt
far from the pain
bang up is not a place for her to remain…

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