



I have known a few girls who turned tricks for food in here. I suppose I wouldn't suck any one's pussy for a candy bar but I would sell my soul for a packet of kool aid type drink. The water here comes out at a minuscule drip from a faucet that is located directly over the shitter. That can't be healthy. When the dry heaves hit me, I wish I had anything besides an empty stomach. My skeletal frame forces itself forward as nothing but foam comes out of my mouth. Fuck this shit.





The first night, everyone exchanges a "what are you in for." I am being moved out of the "kick tank" and into the main jail. I am no longer as sick as my fellow junkies and helplessly seizing alcoholic sisters. I am free to be shackled at the ankle. I walk a few inches at a time, careful not to pinch my legs. The deputy rolls his eyes at me as if to say "hurry the fuck up". Oh well. I can't walk any faster with this hotly bandaged abscess on my thigh. Hopefully, changing the bandages once a day will be enough to salvage my limb. You can't expect much more from jail health. "This isn't a country club..." the deputy tells me. Yeah, I know asshole.





As I walk into the main jail, I feel the breeze blow in from the sally port. That smell of recycled air. Women begin gathering at the railing, seeing who has come for a visit. They are sizing me up to see what I can offer them. Drugs? no. The chick in my cell was smoking crack she pulled out of her pussy the first night. Crack, pipe, lighter, the works was up the same place where each of her five kids came out. The drug life ain't glamorous baby, the told herself as her cell mates looked on. She was obligated to share but I could care less about partaking that night. I was high as a kite when they arrested me. I was a greedy bitch, fixing on the nod when the cops rolled up on me. My friend and I both got swooped up.





"TRACEY..." I see a white girl I know from the street calling to me from the upper tier. I certainly have no desire to be her friend. She promised to send some drugs back inside when she was released. Here she is- back again. Someone will surely touch her up over her debt. Just a matter of time.







I walk over to my bunk. I am fortunate enough to get a lower one. I open up my locker just in time to here them call for commissary. What the fuck. It is Wednesday- commissary over here is WEDNESDAY. I have nothing coming here. My mom sent a $10 money order to be here by Friday. I will get an indigent bag from commissary. Two envelopes, a pencil, and three jolly ranchers known as "suckies". There will be no spread of ramen and cheetos. No chocolate to mask my pain. I could get a loan known as a "two for one". I get one today and I pay back two. Such limited options. I throw myself down on my bed. I don't have the energy to make it. Five days ago, I was wrapped up in the warm blanket known as heroin. Now, I am sprawled out on my cold, hard cot. Ain't life a bitch? I throw my sweatshirt over my eyes. I pray for just a few minutes of rest. This will be my life for the next six months.

I walked into my cell holding an empty plastic tub and an extra pair of orange pants. The worst part of the kick was spent lying on the cold concrete floor. At various points in the last four days, I prayed for death. This alternated with furious masturbation, the only tool I had to get even a moment of sleep. As I sweated out the last of the delicious toxins that made my life worth living, I felt my legs stick against the surface of the mattress. The fear of moving across the cell to request a shower was real. I wasn't sure if the liquid stool was done evacuating my body with equal force as I had shoved syringes into my skin.