Seven Year Old Prophet

Three O'clock in the morning and my eyelids are fluttering again. Light from the T.V. dances on my eyelashes and makes my eyes water from time to time. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, my skin begins to crawl from simple contact of the couch. Lucky, because then I know it's not a dream. At least, I hope it's not a dream again.

I would rather wake up alone for the rest of forever than to be awakened by that touch again. Maybe that's why I won't let you close the door all the way. At least, that's what all the therapists have said. I'll admit, I don't know myself, so I can't really say they're wrong.

Oh god, but his breath. I've never felt anything more like acid. When he said my name, I vomited a little. I couldn't help it. Remind me to grow up a bit more, and take those personalized letters off the wall. I'd rather just forget I've even been identified.

I'm shy. I think I've always been that way. Thinking that I chose my demeanor rather than it being the reaction to "trauma" seems to settle my stomach. But I'm not scared to admit that I am scared. I shrink away at your touch, and I probably always will. I lock the doors at irrational times and avoid the closet for reasons I'm not ready to say.

And it will probably always be like this. And either we'll learn to deal with it and things will be OK, or you will grow tired of having to save my name from drowning and writing your name on your fingertips. You'll walk out the door, but reassure me that you're locking it behind you. I'll find myself watching Law and Order: SVU without another and fixing a smoothie for one. And that's OK. I just hope that it doesn't come to a day in which I'm longing for his touch again.