When they fight, I channel it like a lightning rod or a medium. I lock away the tremors of their rage somewhere so secret I hope even I can never find it again, and I sit, and I hope. And I pray. When they fight, I hold my breath until all I can see is stars flying me through a black galaxy. I match my pained gasping for air to the rhythmic, horrible sounds of them screaming, the vibration of feet across the wood floor in the kitchen , and I cry, and I hate. And I despair. When they fight, I think about dying and death. I draw my fingers across my dusty windowsills uselessly and I wish I could somehow make it all better...and sit for hours in the waning sunlight knowing I am stuck inside the most impossible tangent in the universe. The quietus descends, and I am still alive. When they fight, I lull myself to sleep with lies like a fine poison. I try to convince myself they'll work it out, or they'll talk, or they'll understand. Worst of all I think about love and How can I ever have it if the two people I respect most in the world don't? What hope is there for me? It is at these times, even sorrounded by my friends, that I think about when they fight and I fold myself even smaller inside. ** I wrote it today at school, because I had to. Because something in my was going to burst if I didn't, so I did, and I feel better now. If writing had never been invented, what the hell would I do with myself? Implode on a daily basis?