I was a 10 year old girl,
when the war in my life had began,
bombs from words of angry people flew across the sea,
like a ship fleeing the fight,
one person had left my so called family,
and another kid had been born,
with time
stress tiptoed it’s way progressively into my life,
leading me to become the mother of the house.

age 12,
In the process of still taking care of my siblings,
a social worker showed up to the door,
along with police who stood guard,
the bell rang
which sounded
as if a cannon
had gone off
I was always told not to talk to strangers,
yet a voice in my mind,
whispered to answer anyways,
my feet mechanically moved towards the door.

they questioned if all the kids were home,
I said yes,
then they asked if mother was home,
I said no,
she had gone to the store,
quickly taken by the hands,
my brother and I were forced into the cop car,
the drum of my heart was pounding,
louder and faster with each block that passed,
and for a moment
I thought it was going to explode out of my chest,
aside from the misery that started at a young age,
what I didn't see,
was yet to come.

five months of hell burned by,
memories of the foster parents son,
dissolved in the ashes,
repressed to the back of my mind,
surrounded by fake smiles,
trying to make you feel welcomed,
haunting images
keep thousands of thoughts awake at night,
windows stayed locked,
And doors stayed open,
In fear of him coming back,
filled with gunpowder,
waiting
to
ignite
creeping to get revenge,
for me telling what happened.

I guess being honest doesn't always help in a serious situation,
the word chronic liar arose multiple times,
detectives flood the room,
like a ship sinking in the ocean,
forming question after question,
words dripping from their mouths,
as if they’d been shot,
Wounded,
like I was wounded,
emotionally
mentally
physically.

my 13th birthday,
followed the removal of the first home,
now in a new environment,
like the sunken ship floated to surface,
arriving to a deserted island,
empty and lost,
trying to find who I am,
searching for the sun of the light house, 
this time around was easier,
living in a brighter room,
safer than the man of the other home,
who was the captain of a haunted ship.

staying strong wasn't even the hardest part,
trying to make sense of all the pain,
pick up each piece of the puzzle to make it complete,
rising up standing in the debris still with a smile,
that's the hardest part.
but that chapter in my book is over,
thrown into the deep waters,
shared with sharks and lost diamonds,

next I’m going to be 18,
looking excitedly toward my future,
knowing I will be free,
all the memories still anchored in my brain,
but moving on is how you can try to leave,
to start building a new ship,
then sail across the vast,
dark blue ocean of a future life,
to tread the waters of problems,
with caution,
and make it out alive again,
then the war
will end.