She was cautious. And afraid. She drew lines; she erased them. She made up stories in her head - a place where everyone was free. Free to question when no one else did, free to protect when no one else could.
A perfect raindrop slid down the window, shards of glass beyond, so pretty in the sun.
She tasted the sharp edges of rain, trickled down her arm from the pane,
One day, she knew, they wouldn't need any lines.
But until then, she would erase: fear/hate/hesitation with pain.
One day there would be love.
And she wrote love on her arms.