If they all want something from me then I’ll leave my skin behind – I have no use for this body anyway; its aging organs; its squeaking hinges; and how my eyes have closed like shutters against the one house that always kept its lights turned on. And they like to think about me, all these years later; wonder how well the girl they knew turned into a woman, and if her body still sparkles like the clean kitchens of their childhoods where they were safe, and warm, and wanted. I’m sure they never think about the warped floorboards anymore, and how they got so sick of holding up that they buckled under their weight and sank like quicksand. Time can do that to those blessed enough to be the ones forgetting, but for those of us who have used our hearts to home the ones we brought in off the streets, we can only pray for fire large enough to burn us clean. We can only hope that someday they’ll understand the past is not a door will open again.