Across from I she sits. 

My legs are together

 They are pulled up.
I am afraid of her, of her bravery

Her legs fall on either side of me, as if I am only a small child

She holds a book in her hands

What is she doing? 

That is my book…

The angry red letters that spill from the pages 

Do not seem to startle her

I wonder for a minute if she is a writer as well? 

No, she is too free to be one of us, 

The prisoners with pens we are-

She sees her name, scribbled over a margin. 

I have been holding my breath for too long, but I do not bother as she reads

and I see the beauty of her mind, what I have fallen in love with 

She can tell

“How wonderful, how strange-”

I wait

“-to be loved by something-”

My hand is caressed. I do not pull away. I wait

“-that hates all else.”