I never sang during the shuffle of grandfathers decks. My tongues became numb and my lips danced with the praises of elders younger than me. We were only children living in a foster home built with plastic walls. They begged for our escapes. Knowing that our legs couldn’t make it past the lips of lucky leaping tigers. Our bodies meant nothing to the pianos playing in the dining halls of lust. Guardians prayed to an idol erected upon their stomachs while fathers and mother gave us to them for loafs of bread and a promise written by the illiterates.

My mother counted coins on the kitchen table while father brought home letters from other mothers. My sister hid her novels under blankets and sheets while brother hit his girlfriend in the living room of grandmothers. Our family held no secrets. Shame was not our thing. Uncle called our sister while our power flickered out. Brother begged for his inheritance in hopes to move away. Brother moved away with camel cash and a used out zippo. Mother read the bible but never read the words. Sister still hid her novels. Father kissed the floors of bankrupt restrooms. I sat. I stood. I watched and I cried. I was I and they were they but in the end they saw us as them. My attemps to break out never prevailed. Until that day. When the wrecking balls came. Tore down my flesh and ripped up my legs. I was a house. I was a broken shelter. You thought I was a child but your thoughts were wrong. I was four walls with a ceiling and a scared floor. I had four eyes one on each wall and a door that never offered freedom.

Your tattered legs all stained with salt while mother clutches rubble and calls out fathers fault. You sat on uneven legs in sister marys chair, she combed your nails while you bit your hair. And for seven years you wore bandages on your knees in hopes of removing them in your brothers sacred seas.