I sleep a lot because dreaming is my only way to free myself from reality. In my dreams I feel alive and safe, but most important, I can be myself, the real me. I don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not. There is no fighting, no screaming, just happiness. 

It hurt to wake up in the morning. I can’t explain the pain I go through when I’m sucked back into reality. In my cell, all around me I am reminded of the dangers that await me outside my cell. I have no name here—I am state property, a number in the system. When my cell door is fully opened, I am called by my number, “36.” When I step out of my cell, I look to my left and right, same faces, no one new this morning. All I see are kids, ages 15 through 18. Many of them look too young and a few of them are older, past the age of 18. We form one line and slowly walk down the hall to get our breakfast. When my turn comes, I wait for the older inmate to give me the tray of food. I walk back to my cell because that’s where I eat in the mornings. 

It’s still dark outside and I look at the night sky through the barred window while I eat. While eating I start daydreaming about my home, a small apartment in Brooklyn, I share a room with my older brother and younger sister, I sleep on the floor with only a pillow and blanket. In the summer, when it’s hot and humid, we all sleep in my parents’ bedroom to stay cool, all five of us in a single room. We don’t have much but we have each other.