I used to have a purpose here.

Words would open,

and people would step inside them.

Photos would breathe,

and someone would stop to look.

Now it feels like I’m slipping—

here,

I stared at the chains for a long moment.

They were thicker up close—layered metal, cold and ugly, dug deep enough into her scales that the edges were dark with dried blood. My stomach twisted.

What do I want to be when I get older? 

It’s only a matter of time before I’m an adult and on my own. 

But what profession will I have? 

How will I do on my own? 

Will it all be okay?