I’m Writing my story. But I’m also plotting my escape from this prison cell.
This is my plan.
I will do it with words.
I will write them by day.
I will write them by night.
I will write them on the walls,
the stalls, the halls.
I will write them in big bold ink
on posters I hang on the concrete blocks.
I will write them on little pieces of paper
I stuff in the mattress and the pillow.
I will write them with fingers
bent and cramped from use.
I will write them in blood
if I have to,
but only my own.
And I will keep writing them,
again, and again, and again,
until I fill this prison cell so full of words,
that the bars bend and buckle and burst
because they cannot contain them