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.