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Arch Pediatr Adolesc Med. 2001;155:881.

	Since this article does not have an abstract, we have provided the first 150 words of the full text and any section headings.

Frightened faces all in a row,
Opening front doors, slowly,
   staring, noticing the door opening at their own unrecognizable will.
I sometimes get a glimpse of these adults with their torn young souls.
   They think I can't see them, but I can. I see broken yolk.
Bright yellow, dripping and glopping into puddles all around her feet as in a dream.
   Thick mounds harden quickly into an infertile orange rubber paste.
   What would have formed into memories of childhood play, friendship, and the sweet
   smell of familial, like-blood skin and breath, turns hard and useless, discoloring as the
   oxygen removes the gloss from her existence.

Foster children smile at strangers in exchange for food, shelter, bedding, and hope of a new day. Some of the strangers are kind and come up normal with the sunshine. Other strangers have knives buried, and secrets in closets. The spiders under these strangers' beds . . . [Full Text of this Article]