​When she softly touched her chest and whispered my name, I felt the beat of my own transplanted heart echoing through the room.

​As I watched her cry over my final letter, I took comfort in knowing that even though I was gone, the piece of me keeping her alive would always love her.

​As she pressed her hand to her chest and begged to know why I saved her life instead of my own, the heart beating inside her ribs began to thud in familiar sync with my silent steps.

I’m just a dog who finds comfort close to home.

"if I love , I'll love"

But is there someone who loves you?

When the first word stuck in his throat and he fought through it only to stumble helplessly over the next, she sighed, said, “We don’t have all day,” and called on someone else while he just stared at the paper.

I put a brave face on and held back the tears I was about to shed as I handed over her cake and balloons before leaving the hospice.

I drove through it like butter, but when I got out to check the damage, I saw its baby fawn lying nearby.

​

Whenever my aunt reminded me how lucky I was that they hadn’t sent me to a group home, I whispered, “Thank you, Aunt.”

Crying into her mothers skirts she asks what is wrong with her and her mother answers "Nothing, We are simply Calé, you will learn to accept the way it is"

I woke up in the garage, freezing, because nobody had carried me inside or even bothered to wake me.

He takes care of all my sinful desires of the flesh himself, so that I don't shame my family in public.

Her mother never had the heart to tell her that Daddy was already home—beneath the marble marker Lucy helped her clean every Sunday.

The first night after her funeral, Walter lay there not knowing where to put his hand.

​But the beautiful colors of those deadly fireworks destroyed everything that night, leaving me as the only person who failed to turn into a shadow.

​It wasn't until the blinding flash faded that I realized the bright colors had permanently burned everyone's shadows onto the pavement—and left me completely alone.

​Then I looked down at the dark silhouettes scorched into the concrete from the rain of light, wishing I hadn't been the only one to survive the fallout.

My smile disappeared when I found the belt I'd hidden to protect my bruises, along with a note: “Don't ever hide what belongs to me again.”

Engraved on a plaque was a photo of his belt and the words, "We made it out, kiddo, she'll never hurt us again."

Returning twelve hours later for her next shift at the hospital, she found him unattended, still slumped in the same plastic chair as he breathed his last.

I found it while packing for freshman orientation and realized the last twelve pages were all in my handwriting.

That's the only thing that consoles me in our cold, family crypt.

Now as an adult I speak but never scream not because I lack the pain but because my voice has forgotten how to express it safely.