Here comes the hunter and his pack of panting dogs, his hand on the choke collar. What is he really hunting for in the airless sky and moonless night? Faith. You had faith when you were eight. A hovering cross swallowed the dust of careless exile and now Sunday feels like silence. Little lambs on your panties. Starving. Groping for more tangerines while you suck and sling the peels from the one you eat. You fill a space as small as childhood. The size of your grandmother's grave. A drunk red oak kisses you. You will never eat another tangerine. The taste is spoiled. You are so small, alone and yes, this is really happening. This is not really happening.

YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE. Train number nine, scheduled to arrive at Silence, Ignorance and Apathy is now boarding. Silence writes a thousand suicide poems, wads and throws them into the trash. Ignorance is more ancient than your grandmother's hair. Apathy springs from photographs at either end of your childhood and this is the best $25 ticket you can get. You are dying from your life. Reeling from heaven to hell to heaven and back to hell. Who's your daddy? Lies. Lies. Lies. The hunter's breath unfastens your childhood skin. Think of that awful morning, slain under a fallen tree. This is really happening. This is not really happening. Red clay. Red face. Visions. Screech bird. Scream. Hiss. Your Cherokee great, great, grandmother's name is Tennessee Collins. A Sun Dancer. Smoke signals. Anything to not think of that awful morning. Hide in your room. Eat jelly from the Big Dipper.

Other teenagers practice kissing. Kissing their socks, mirrors, cups of water.

Factors research has shown to influence the effects of sexual abuse: Whether the child told anyone, and if so, the person's response. Doubting, blaming and shaming responses can be extremely harmful - in some cases even more than the abuse itself.

YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE. Train number ten, scheduled to arrive at Doubt, Ignore, Blame and Shame is now boarding. Doubt is the zip code of your heart. No one has ever loved you. Ignore yourself in the bathroom mirror. Shame fingers your throat. Gag. You are ready to swoon away in airless blame. Short of breath. Hand fucked, as if they just invented dicks. This is really happening. This is not really happening. A man’s hunger inspects your breasts, hair, Happy Meal toys. Pass the French's Mustard. The hunter eats his way through you. The dogs. The lips. Calling Zimmer's Angels. Calling Zimmer's Angels. Are you surprised at how often you think of him? Are you even here? Go on, limp toward sadness.

How old are you? Look at that belly. Fat. Fat. Thick enough to explode. Sick. Sick. You're even missing buttons on your best shirt. Shame. Shame. It is March 13, 2004 and the snowflakes are the size of rose petals. You still smell the hunter's breath. Beer. Back in 1993 you took a Greyhound away from that awful morning. The hunter's dogs panting on your heels. You were wearing your fat, fat shirt. And now you're back. Back at the kitchen table where love takes place. Place soup ingredients on the counter: pea pearls, a piece of cock, barley, a piece of Mary. This is the best $25 bowl of soup you can get. This is really happening. This is not really happening. For your information, on the mountain, there is shelter.

YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE. Train number eleven scheduled to arrive at Recovery is now boarding. Recovery is in the shelter. You will find it on the mountain you must climb. There is a warm fireplace, a table, a piece of paper, a pen and a hot bowl of soup.