She lives in a maze of words,
It has been said-
Whispered and drawn from the hushed lips of librarians
Listening to the sounds of books,
The shelves that creak like cages,
Breathe in the thick fine dust
Like one body,
And amidst the bars
The girl coils herself between Dickens and Gaiman
For company from the invisible

The stories hang soft around her hair
Brushing her lips
Perched on her arm
She collects words in her palm
The black ones that are beaten into bone-white and
Wrinkly oil-yellow pages
The long thin fingers of her hand handle them
Curiously and gently
As her lungs breathe graphite and
Wet
Dark ink
Her mouth full with the ripe flavor of words,
She creases corners with red
Paper-worn hands
Making her way through the library labyrinth,
Slipping silently through the bars and moaning
Aisles

It has been said that letters run through her veins
Beautiful and pink and bright
Matching her pupils
It was a gift to be so beautiful, they had said
But a curse to be so hid away
And they wished they could see her long enough
To feel her pulse
Beating with ink

But they just catch glimpses of her
With envy on their lips
In every syllable murmured into the cold dusty air-
How she could be so attuned to books
How they could not

But when they see her,
They study the pale girl,
The skittish
Elegant creature
As if it were an art form:
She dares not hurt them,
The moth-eaten paperbacks
And the faded lipstick-red leather bounds,
Her friends,
And she gathers the mangled words,
Like a baby bird cupped in her hand,
And with careful ink-stained fingers,
Places them, almost coaxes them, into the trash bin
Nestled between crumpled
And odious prose.