I’m from tile floors and the sound of the faucet running.

Dark, empty rooms that flood with the feeling of nothing.

Then, a creak of the door, and a scream I’ll never forget.

Her feet pound the stairs, and I begin to sweat.

My eyes slide shut and I start to pray,

As my neighbor kneels to whisper, “Hang in there, help is on the way,”

my father’s voice restores my consciousness,

and I recognize the touch of my mother’s hand on my arm.

I hear pleads to God and approaching police car alarms.

I am from the the sound of screaming,

and chairs hitting the floor.

The sound of footsteps,

and unlocking doors.

Bare walls, cheap food, and a mattress—thin as paper.

Staying up through the night,

I await the whirring coffee maker.

Minutes turn into hours, and hours into days,

until I pack my stuff, and they send me on my way.