All I Talk About is Incarceration

Poetry by Abigail Cook

Maybe poems don’t have to rhyme anymore.
Maybe there doesn’t have to be a meter.
Because if things made sense in this world,
I wouldn’t be here.

I wouldn’t have ten years of probation
for a mistake I made as a teenager.
My best friend’s family wouldn’t have to choose
to bury or to cremate her.

I wouldn’t have nightmares caked
in regret and disgust.
I wouldn’t look in your eyes
and see only distrust.

I would be a normal woman
who crosses her legs and holds a job. 
I wouldn’t take anti-psychotics
because paranoia makes my head throb.

And maybe this doesn’t have an end
that is pretty or cinematic.
Maybe my story ends quietly
and collects dust in an attic.