I am eight years old.
I hide behind the fence in our backyard,
the smell of damp leaves and rotting wood.
The mud ***** and slurps at my toes like some ravenous beast
as my brother bleeds at my mothers hands.
I am silent.

I am ten years old.
I hide behind the cracked old leather on a school bus.
Their laughter rises and falls like the bumpy gravel road.
I chip a bit of paint off the windowsill
and it breaks my heart.
I am silent.

I am fifteen years old.
I hide in a lightless back alley.
It reeks of something sweet threatening to make me gag as I clasp my hands over my mouth.
Flashes of red and blue pass once more chasing a scared, sad little heart as I hold my breath.
I am silent.

I am twenty one years old.
I hide behind the person
they know me to be.
Behind charming coos and witty jabs.
Behind a persona of indomitable strength.
I am the best of them,
of us.
The most well adjusted.
The luckiest and most fortunate.
Nothing is wrong,
after all,
they look at me and I have it all.
But in my mind
I am screaming.
In my mind I am already gone.