Age

When I was eight, I had music.

Every night, it came from a beautiful box and helped me sleep.

Every day, I would hum and sing the tune when it wasn’t playing.

I treasured that music. I treasured that box.

And when the music stopped, so did my heart.

Now I’m nine and sad.

Instead of music, Bonnie’s screaming fills my ears.

Now I’m ten and afraid.

Instead of sleeping, she fades in and out of consciousness.

Now I’m eleven and nervous.

Instead of humming, Janice memorizes the words in my head.

Now I’m twelve and robotic.

Instead of singing, she sits and dwells in silence.

Now I’m thirteen and numb.

Instead of screaming, all Rachael can do is wait.

When I was eight, I had music.

But the music stopped, and the pain hit, and now I’m shattered.

I can’t function. We don’t sleep.

I can’t move. We don’t breathe.

And every night, he holds me and will not let me go.

I’m angry because I’m not free.

I’m angry because he left me.

I’m angry because I can’t scream or hear music anymore.