I began running at 10. My consistency. Escaping pills, broken promises, and resemblances of a father I grew up loving but am grateful is dead, averting explanation to a family that honors secrets above truth. I stapled a letter on the heart that killed him the day he was buried to guarantee our story would rest with him forever the way it would me. Deceits, deceptions, poached purity. Starting at five and ending when his guilt disclosed him. I wiped away his touch in vain. She never questioned the unbearable burn; reality would cause a relapse. I wiped until I bled to erase his pollution that still haunts me; wiped to undo his chilled touch; wiped to rid myself of his grimy hands; wiped to mask his ever-present night-shift smell. The toilet paper carried our secret. Working at night seemingly for more money; placing items into boxes on an assembly line to limit himself from putting things in me. I ran from dark. My dolls as my ally, a fortress two deep; hiding my feet–the ones he loved. The ones I kept buried until he was. A fortification of counterfeit protection; my hope. Itsy bitsy spider, full moons, night lights. I return to the Ford to hold her in the backseat as she unwittingly traced the red upholstery while she spoke, praying to move a mountain like Jesus did. The sun’s glare protecting her from the disbelieve in her mom’s eyes–for once not vacant–when she rejects truth to entertain her utopia. I hug the boy in the front seat to lift the responsibilities he was burdened with and the memories that still track him. I hug her on the couch while the fan slices the tainted memories that even it can’t handle. Brother’s playing, she’s wasting, he’s betraying. We kept the secret. I can’t bring her shame with me; her memories too concrete. Mustaches, unions, baseball bats. She ran to survive. I write to know her.