I have learned there is more than one way to die.

I got words in me, Jess, fighting to find a way out. Sometimes there's so many words and they get so crowded in my skull I think my head is gonna explode. I want to write them down. I've tried, but most of the time my thoughts and my feelings are bigger than what I can get on paper.

Those who have witnessed executions say there is no sound worse than the weeping of mother watching her son being put to death.

They're wrong. There is one sound that is worse.

There is silence.

Words are like people, I think. Put too many of them too close together and they cause trouble.

I'm Writing my stoy. 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 on 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
And then
I will
be free.

Did you know that seventy-five to eighty percent of juvenile offenders can’t read at grade level?”
“Really?” This was news to me.
“Your world becomes a much smaller place if you can’t read. You have far fewer options. It’s not the only factor, but it’s a big one. If they want to know how big to build a prison,
all they have to do is look at the illiteracy statistics.”
“They knew I was coming.”
“You or someone like you.”
“You knew it too, all those years ago, back in Quincy. That’s why you tried to help me. Because you knew I was coming here.”
“Here or someplace like here.