‘It’s the screaming that I can’t take! Do you hear them?’

‘Yes! It’s something close to freedom! I’m not afraid.’

‘You should be.’

‘Well, only when I try to write.’

‘Then try a little harder.’ I slam the door in her face and step back outside. It’s still wet. Sia is still screaming. The grass still tickles my toes if I skip through her quick enough. I’m infected. I know! I know that I know what no one knows. I know the way I dance at four in the morning is not accepted by my love. I know I worry my love. I know my love will leave. I know there’s no place like home. I know my flesh and bones will be the only home I ever get to know. I know every love I ever know will provide the home that my body craves most. I know nothing else on this earth will ever mean a thing but this craving. I know I must use my voice. I know I must sing. I just don’t know where yet. I don’t know where it all goes up in flames; I just know how I will let it. I don’t know how to put Sia to words; I just know how to dance to her in the rain. Not pouring rain. I’m not that serious of a survivor, not anymore. It’s sprinkling in Portland. My hair is damp, curly, finally on its way to my shoulders. I’m a prissy little drama queen these days. I’m working back up to the queen that I used to be a 14. I could kill giants with my bare hands. Here, let me show you.

‘No! I’m trying as hard as I can. Here I am, I’ve made you dinner. I’ve made your bed; you sleep in it, don’t you? You sleep with your fingers inside me, don’t you? At the very least the thought of me, what’s the difference? If my flesh is the only thing that puts you to sleep, how do you think I rest?

‘You don’t.’

‘I don’t. There’s no rest here.’

‘Don’t be afraid.’

‘I’m always scared.’