Don’t you fucking cry

A Sia song spoke of a one way ticket to a place where you’re taught to cry in your pillow. Hearing that song set me on a course last night of insomniac mania that just snowballed. I was moving from one end of the room to the other in the darkness trying to scurry from the visions hitting me like cannonballs. I’m usually so good at blocking it all out.

Men want to hear about Prison stories. They expect sex and more sex. They don’t want to hear about the lump that forms permanently in your chest from learning to hold in tears, wails, grief, and crying in your State issued pillow. Women who are in prison for life don’t want to hear your Bitch ass whining about a few years. You will get your ass kicked, or in my case, my bed was set on fire my first night in general population. I only have a few scars on my left arm to show from it, little white circles where the wool blanket melted and left hard black burnt crust on my arm as I dove off the top bunk and hit the ground, my senses knocked out of me and dislocation my right shoulder.

Doesn’t matter why you’re crying. You better not let yourself be heard. Grief is contagious. You turn to stone in order to get through to the other side of your sentence alive. If some one comes along and cries, the sound itself creates a rage.

I’m guilty of becoming just such a monster.

I remember the pressure in the chest, the pain in the throat, and the incredible headache that accompanies silent crying. Eventually your face becomes a desert

For some reason I remembered the shake down shack after thinking of silent tears. Before visits and after visits, and after work detail if you worked in a building outside the main prison walls (I worked in the Georgia lottery print shop and ran a printing press) you have to strip naked, spread your fingers and toes, show behind your ears, open your mouth and lift your tongue, turn around, spread your ass cheeks, squat, and cough. This is so if you shoved contraband up your vagina or ass it will fall out. If the officer has cause to believe you still may have something inside of you you can be cuffed and led to medical and be put through a ‘body cavity’ search. My first strip search I was mortified. I was on my period. I was humiliated, ashamed, scared, and I followed the officers instructions, with a lump the size of Texas in my throat, my eyes on fire with tears that I refused to let fall, my vision blurring with them. My nose running. Just fucking naked, raw, choking back tears. I went from 20 to 120 that day. A rage was born, and frankly, it’s never left.

Thinking of that made me clench my teeth, which I try to not do. My teeth are FUCKED from a student surgery when I needed my wisdom teeth cut out. I was shipped to Central State Hospital, the criminally insane hospital which served also as the dental surgery hospital in the early 90s.  I did not know dental students would be doing my surgery but it’s not like we had a choice. I woke up with my jaw broken and wired shut, and a man standing in my window with his cock in his hand, jacking off.  He had a hospital gown on. He was jacking off watching me. I started vomiting from the anesthesia, and from being startled, which was a horrific ordeal with my jaw being wired shut, so I start choking and flailing, which makes him so excited he ejaculated on the window. And no one did a fucking thing. Once my mouth healed I come to find half…Yes, HALF my teeth were broken. All my back teeth are broke off at the root. A pain I simply.learned to deal with. I try to avoid clenching my teeth because it aggravated the roots and my.jawline will get inflamed. Like now, because I heard a song last night which spoke of crying in pillows which led me to remember being set on fire in my own bed, and almost choking on my own puke while some sleeze ball jacked off on my.hospital window. Fucking criminals. I tell ya.

Can’t live with them, can’t kill them.

So, I’m mad at my.mother because I have a toothache. If she were living well after I shot her drug dealer the pain would be almost welcome…but she relapsed this year…last week to be exact. I told no one. The rage of all the wasted time for this junkie that cares for no one.

These are words men don’t want to hear. They get a hard on thinking of women having orgies, or at the very least of being a man in power over helpless prisoners.

They don’t think of UnHye sharp or the many others who hung themselves by the door so when abusive officers opened the door they are welcomed with the smell of piss and the sight of

bloated purple faces.

Nope. It’s all about the prison orgies.

And ok. God damnit. I did have my share of threesomes in there. I did. Rofl. And it was good, and I deserved it. I paid half my teeth, my right shoulder, and my twenties for it. I had TONS of sex, with so many women I stopped counting when I hit 100. And it doesn’t matter. None of it mattered. It made for good poetry and something to think about and fixate on so you don’t cry.

For God’s sake. Don’t you fucking cry.

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