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Abstract

I sit here a prisoner, an inmate, property of the state, a number. I live in a cell with a number and a letter above my door. A picture of my cellie and a picture of me, both stuck to the door with Velcro. These are the only things that signify we live there. Many of us inmates like to call this place “Camp Cupcake.” This facility is comparable to a girl’s school. It is safe here, but there is no rehabilitation. If we don’t work hard on our own to grow, it can be a place where women’s bodies go to be stored, almost like a morgue. Everything in here is the same. The same doors, same pictures, same cinder-block walls, same bunks, same guards, same orange uniforms. It never changes, but I don’t feel the same.

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