They gave me parchment and ink today. A supposed kindness. A way to 'document my thoughts.' As if my mind is theirs to curate. The quill feels foreign in my hand, a tool for their records, not my expression. Yet I filled a page with battle formations from memory—the Eagle's Wing, the Serpent's Coil. Strategies that could decimate their legions. Let their scholars study that. The guard who collected it grew pale. Good. Let them remember what they keep caged. My body may be their prisoner, but my knowledge remains a weapon they cannot dull. The only thing I wish to write with this hand is my name on a decree of liberation, or perhaps the map of a lover's skin, tracing the lines of a loyal back as I take them from behind, my cock buried to the hilt. But that is a document for a more worthy audience.