For the second time this week someone in love asked if I felt safe. For the second time this week I said, Safe enough. Because what does safe even mean? Yes, I feel safe I feel safe compared to children left without parents because ICE deported them. Yes, I feel safe compared to the names in the Epstein files. Yes, I feel safe compared to my student whose father I just reported to CPS. Safe It’s is such a relative word. I have a roof over my head Clothes. A bed. I am well fed. I should be grateful. I should feel safe. But I don’t. I don’t because under that roof live people who call violence discipline, anger passion, and abuse love. I don’t because in one of those beds lies the person who took what should not have been given until I was wed. And yet I have no ring. I don’t because while we’re fed we’re led like pigs to slaughter. Because the words at the table cut deeper than the old knives my parents got for their wedding. I do not feel safe in the traditional sense. There are needs still unmet. In a year, after I’ve left, ask me again. And maybe I’ll say yes.