Somewhere out there, there is a version of myself that never knew your carefully placed wrath, never felt the sting of your vodka filled hands, or the spine tingling chill of your words.

Eleven pounds is what you weighed when I brought you home from the hospital 58 days after your birth. For the first year of your life, you slept on top of me every night, an increasingly heavy but reassuring weight.

Just a remnant of those herded onto ships months ago, we have been divided, have been examined and bargained for but not yet fed.