Shackles

By Chelsea Raker

as I go through the motions

my mind wanders

to movement

it wasn’t something I paid much

attention to until I …

didn’t

have it

mobility

motility

autonomy

mother. fucking. legs — that work.

every night I sleep and dream of being

with people I know in the city that I

called home and

I begin to notice

black trucks,

people looking,

lurking.

I want to put as much distance

between me and my people

as I can

…they’re no longer safe with me.

I collapse

begin to drag myself

army crawl—anything

but let them take me.

I blink back to reality.

There are

2 male escorts + 1 female = 3 cops in total

every pair of eyes

in the building

looks up

to stare

as they escort

all 5’6” 115 lbs

of

me

back to cell block J.

chains reverberate

with every step that

I

take

the soundtrack to my solitude:

I’m “innocent until proven guilty.”

they forgot.

one officer sticks an electronic key into a slot in the wall — the door

whines and groans

as if they dare to disturb

the tomb

it conceals

lest some poor soul escape

captivity.

with a final growl

the door slowly rolls open.

.

an officer refuses to meet my eyes

as he removes the cuffs from

my wrists.

temporarily resigned to my discontent

I walk into the block

waiting

To hear the door

slide and lock

into place

behind me

like a seamless sealing of my

F

A

T

E.

it doesn’t.

I can feel their eyeballs

poking

Prodding. Imploring.

dissecting me

lasering in

like trippy beams on the back of my neck.

I turn.

“What?” I snap.

they’re looking at me like I’m some goddamn experiment,

like they’re observing the supremely fucked in its natural fucking

habitat.

One officer gestures toward me stepping forward, stammering

“Uhm...do you...would you like me to, uh, I —

Let me take those off for you.”

I look down

at the shackles

that still hold my ankles.

I had walked back into my cage

Still bound

in chains like

they were part of me.