For years I was caught in a war I didn’t start.

Voices like bullets

insults like screaming bombs dropped unexpectedly, undeserved

Glass shards of broken relationships digging into my skin and unnecessary guilt burning a hole in my chest.

The living room, No Man’s Land.

The bedrooms, trenches.

In my trench, I would curl up under the bed and lick my wounds

like an injured animal, alone.

Pages of books became bandages, the words became morphine.

The war raged on in the background, and still it does, but I found an escape in the stories

of kingdoms and dragons and honor;

of victory and the princess escaping her tower;

of unconditional love;

of healing.

Books became shields from the piercing bullets and bomb shrapnel

and now I find myself making those shields for

the other lost kids under their beds.

I write stories of kids like them

who get away and find a home

with people who truly love them.

For the other broken kids hiding from parties

I write stories of survivors, of fighters, of people who do not give up when knocked down.

For the other scared kids who are called slurs simply for who they love and what gender they identify as

I write stories of people who find love and who find themselves regardless of what is so called “right”.

I write the words I needed when I was lost and broken and scared

because I know other lost kids need them too.

I hope that one day

They will write what they needed

For the other kids like them.

And I hope that one day

They can properly be healed.