Six homes in seven years.
She has learned the rules.
Don't eat too much.
Don't talk too loud.
Don't cry where anyone can hear.
Say [I]Thank you.
I'm sorry.
I'm fine.[/I]
There are fingerprints on her arms
that no one noticed,
bruises on her thighs
she won't talk about.
There are words in her head
that still sound like shouting.
She does not ask for much.
Not a big house.
Not matching pajamas.
Not a dog, though she would love one.
Just a kitchen light left on.
A door that stays open.
Someone who says her name
like it matters.
She wants arms that hold
without hurting.
Voices that stay soft.
A bed that will still be there
tomorrow night.
She wants to unpack.
To hang her drawings
on a refrigerator.
A family
that won't send her away
when she's sad,
when she's difficult,
when she remembers too much.
She wants what other children
don't know they have.
Her name is Molly.
And she likes dogs.
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