Sunday

Sunday
by,
William Morgan

In the shower. In my cell. They get me. Five against one. Every night. Except Sunday. A day of rest? I fight. I fight real hard. I always lose. And it hurts. Hurts real bad. My girl, Jenny. She’s sneakin’ stuff in. Every visit. A good girl is my Jenny. Sunday arrives. I draw the circle. Light the candles. Open the book. Slice my palm. Speak the words. I hear their screams. I hear their screams. I smile.

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