Motionless.
Bloody fingers.
No fingernails, bandaged fingertips.
Trapped.
A forest.
Screaming.
A party, going on above my head, so far above my head.
Dark.
Dark.
Dark.
Silence,
Too much.
Sobbing.
No air.
No air.
No air.
Can't breathe.
Raw throat.
It opens.
It opens.
The lid, they lift it--
White wood.
Etchings in the side.
Quenyian etchings.
Poetry.
It could be beautiful but I freeze when I see it.
They will use it
again
again
and again
to control me,
to distract me,
to harm me
because I fear it
because I have shown that I fear it
because they fucking can.
And now, years later
I wake up and look at healed fingers
I wake up and breathe the too-clean air
I wake up in her arms and she murmurs, "It's okay. You're safe."
I know she's right.
The things that truly terrify us
never truly leave.
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