With every move she makes, she can hear them behind her.

They follow and snake behind, leaving a trail of unwanted shadows in her wake.

The shackles bound to her hands and feet feel cool and comforting against boiling skin, as

loosely they secure her in place,

and slowly they begin to choke her from the outside in.

If she put in a little effort, surely the chains would restrain her no more;

they had rusted and corroded as she began to bloom and see.

Yet the chains seemed to be a superficial excuse-

they were not the things that bound her.

No, these rusted chains had lost their meaning long ago.

With every move she makes, she can feel them behind her.

That is, the longing eyes of the prisoners in their cells.