Parents will never know the effect they have on their kids when they fight. Every vulgar word, every scream, every hit, every threat, every tear... Kids have the best memories. Kids never forget. They carry it with them, breathe it, live with it, well into the angst and awkwardness of puberty, well into the carefully built cold walls of adulthood where they wrestle with themselves and the voices in their heads over and over and over again.

Why is it wrong to believe that you are worth something?
Why must we put ourselves down, deny goodness, deny possibilities?
Why is it easier to believe in a horrible lie than an honest lovely truth?
Why is pain, depression, darkness, comfortable and safe?
Why is it so hard to trust people?
Why must we always protect ourselves?
What are we protecting ourselves from?
Why are the stars and the moon, the very very pretty moon, always beyond our reach?
Why do people fight?
Why, why, why, why, why?

And when the war is over at the end of the night, they lie in a pile, their bodies sweaty, and feel... about five, or eight, or twelve- about the time when the world as they knew it to be, all big and bright and fancy with fairies and dinosaurs and candies, fell down, down, down, out of the blue blue sky into fucking shit.

They could only see their own grazed bloodied knees, and tired naked feet.