Fear Is…

Fear is his hand around my neck,

a five-fingered noose choking out my innocence.

His fingers in my cunt,

His words penetrating my eardrums as he whispers, “Are you ready?”

Someone is crying.

Someone is crying.

Please, someone, get this woman to stop crying, I’m trying to breathe to tell him no.

No. Please.

But his lust is a disease and no amount of pleading will stop this bleeding from between my knees,

I swear it’s my broken heart that has stained the sheets.

Fear is seeing him in the grocery store, halfway down the freezer isle between the pizza and the peas.

Hiding my face behind a single pane of foggy glass,

Praying to the god I don’t know if I believe in to deliver me from the hell that exists.

Fear is my face pressed against the tile of my bathroom floor,

Staring at an empty prescription bottle.

My pulse doesn’t pound like drums of war,

It shakes.

Like my hands when the doctor asked me if I did it for attention.

And did I mention that I don’t want to die?

I want to know what it’s like to live.

Fear is rain patter against a windshield,

A confession of depression but my mother insists it was my fault.

I could have made it stop,

I was dating him, after all.

Fear is the silence that every rape victim embraces,

Seeing their shame in the faces of the people they call friends,

Swallowing their agitation for the frustration of society telling them to

Get over it.

But the weight of my blankets still feels like his body and I wake up screaming under their pressure.

I wish that my pores were made of eyeballs so I could sleep with one thousand eyes open.

I wish my pores were made of eyeballs so I could sleep with one thousand eyes open.

So I could sleep with one thousand eyes open.

So I could sleep.