The scared little girl is still hiding in the closet.
Hiding from you and from him, at the back of the closet.
She's under a blanket, barricaded in the closet.
Holding a flashlight, off, dark, on the floor of the closet.
The scared little girl is still hiding in the closet.

I can't hear his voice without my forehead burning up in a fiery cold sweat of both lust and fear at the same time.
His existence is something I can never be a part of anymore yet my body is so used to the acquaintance of his being that I can't hold myself back from trying to be in his life.
I shouldn't exist in his existence: it feels like bad religion, a sin I can never forgive myself for, but the euphoria I experience when I commit this sin is a stunning sort of infatuation, I never want to leave his side, though I don't believe I was ever there.
He used to care,
he used to notice,
he used to be able to tell when my feelings were bare.
Now I am here,
two seats away from him.
I try to joke, to communicate, and he smiles lightly, but
the glow from his eyes is not as bright for me, anymore, as it is for everyone else.
I ****** up.