He taught me to be afraid.
Not horror-movie afraid.
Not power-out afraid.
Those kinds of afraid propel you down dark hallways with the shadows nipping at your heels.
And he made me the kind of afraid that pushed my head down so I couldn’t meet his eyes.
The kind of afraid that made me absolutely still-- frozen-- like an ice-queen.

I don’t think he knows that I’m afraid.
He just watches me like he’s puzzled.
Like I wanted it.
And he can’t understand why I want to take it back now.
But it’s a Christmas present without a receipt, and the department store won’t let me return it.

He taught me to be afraid of myself.
Afraid of my voice.
I should have said no,
Yelled no,
Screamed no,
Whispered no,
But it would have shattered the quiet darkness.
And I’m afraid of the broken glass.
I was afraid of all that I am, and all that I was.
Afraid of my skin and my lips and my bones.

And he doesn’t know how afraid I am.