I am eight years old in my father's basement. 

I search for answers with a twelve year old girl. 

Her hair falls past her hips as the skeletons shift and scrape towards the new rush of cells. 

It is breakfast time. The walls begin to warm, the sun blows it's fried smells of grease into 
our noses. 

Our stomachs burn and we place our soiled 
hands over our soiled skin in hopes of closing
this sense of hunger.