Buried

It's a terror that reaches down into your bones and constricts your soul.

It holds you in a contorted position on the floor and mocks your cries of pain.

It rapes you. It humiliates you.

It burns its brand into your arm, so that no one again will look at you the same.

Then it leaves you.

You can't call the police. You can't call your mother.

You can't remember what it looked like, or where it came from;

which window it broke to get in.

You can't remember if its voice was deep or high,

if it was wearing a business suit or a cardigan sweater.

But you know the mocking ring that fear puts on everything.

This is something you remember forever, day after day, dream after nightmare,

thought after action into the pit it dug.

And you bury yourself.