He Made Me Promise

not to tell. He said no one would believe me. He said I
would only disgrace myself. He said that I would lose
him forever. I carry the secret from the bedroom, to
the shower. I try to scour the stain off my body, with

boiling hot water and then to the kitchen table, where it
sits in my belly like rocks from a landslide. It fills my stomach up with mucus so I can’t digest. I carry it all day at school, in my classes and among my friends. I carry it when talking to my

guidance counselor. She told me that it was ok to talk
about it. But I was afraid, afraid of what would happen,
afraid of what they’d do. What would they think about me
if I let my secret loose? I carried the shame as heavy

as the secret itself. I carried it home that evening
when I went into my bedroom and swallowed the bottle
of pills on my nightstand. When I awoke in the hospital
they looked as if they already knew. They told me

I was safe. They told me I would stay for a while, in a place
with bars on the windows that look like a cage. At least I'll
be safe away from him. Maybe someday I’ll tell the world the secret I’ve been keeping, or maybe I'll wear the stain to my grave.