I Hold My Breath

I hold my breath as I shift in bed, afraid he may wake up.

I turn away when he looks at me, afraid he’ll see my fear.

I creep through the house, afraid he’ll shout that I’m too loud.

I wear long-sleeve shirts, afraid others will see my bruises.

I watch as others stare at me, witnesses to my shame.

I tell myself I have no choices, afraid the one I make,

could be worse.

I hide a bag with basic things, afraid I may need to flee.

I squirrel away cash, afraid of having nothing.

I smile and say I’m fine, afraid someone will see the truth.

I call the hotline when he’s gone, afraid someone will answer.

I use a false name for the shelter’s phone number, afraid he’ll discover my plan.

I pretend the vodka bottles don’t exist, afraid he won’t have enough to pass out.

I refill his Percocet, afraid the alcohol won’t do its job.

I pretend to read my book, watching him starting to doze.

I wait, afraid I’ll never be free, and at last, unafraid.