Uno

Outwardly, I’m a model inmate—neat uniform, silent footsteps. Inwardly, I’m rearranging the walls. They think the prison breaks your mind; I think it sharpens it. I collect details like smuggled contraband—gazes held a second too long, the shift in a guard’s posture on Thursdays, the way dust settles in the cracks. My rituals keep the chaos outside. Fold. Count. Observe. But some nights, even I forget which side of the glass I’m on.