I see it happening so clearly: Again, I am curled up in the empty hallway linen pantry, Back bruised against the wooden frame, Pillows tucked beneath crossed legs, Distracting myself with my Nintendo 2DS and hoping they won’t find me; Again, I am huddled underneath a blanket with my sister, Telling her that if we can’t see it, it isn’t real, And not to cry, or they might notice us, And that it’s going to be okay, because there’s nothing else I can offer; Again, I am supine on the carpet of my closet, Door closed, fan on, air filter running, Anything to drown out the noise while I’m Calling a help-line volunteer with a Southern accent; Again, I am in the backseat with my headphones at full volume, Pretending to be asleep so they don’t drag me into whatever it is – Some argument on politics, the economy, financial instability – Because any addition will draw the drive out that much longer; Again, I am a child without agency, autonomy, anything worth anything, and It’s all I can do to observe and keep breathing.