I don't talk to my friends like that. But we'll stay friends.

I have nightmares about people I've left behind. The curly hair. The hands that couldn't open my jars.

I screamed all night, damning the cracks in my plaster walls,

forgetting which bed I slept in.

My friends never made curfew. I hid behind the couches they shared.

Walking in and out of dust.

Five years I screamed.