afraid of the dark

there's a memory, buried deep

somewhere. i'm not sure where.

in the memory (as fractured)

(as it is), i've been

left behind in the

dark. i am terrified of the

dark. i won't be caught

dead in the dark. whoever has

left me behind

in this memory

knows that. i know that

they know. and, yet, the

only thing going through

my head in this

memory--aside from the panic

tearing at my skin and the

suffocating (other) feeling that

is swallowing me whole and

has me choking back tears and

holding a hand over my mouth

to keep quiet--are the words from

the person who's left me

behind: "don't be dramatic,

it's just the dark--it's childish and

stupid of you to be

so afraid of this." i have been

left behind as a

lesson, of some sort. i

do not know how long i'm stuck,

alone, in the dark, but i know

i get out, at some point, breathless

and searching for the arms of

the authority who decided

i needed the lesson. their arms

are not welcoming. their arms are not open for me. they ask me,

"now, was that so bad?" and in this

memory, i know that if i say

that, yes, it was that bad, i may get

put back in the dark again.

so i shake my head

in the memory and i

close off my expression and i

separate from myself for who-

knows how long. the memory has

many duplicates, adjusted over

time and different in each but

somehow still the same--the

same fears and hurts and the

same type of words and the

same sort of separation from

myself afterwards. i am still

afraid of the dark.