The Fear

We don’t talk about the fear
The gripping, piercing fear
Not a Scoobydoo scared
Not a hands in front of the face
Eyes peeping through scared
A fear that’s as old as the night
That brings the hairs to the surface
The urine to flow
Every time
We feel his voice rise
Feel his steps behind us
Feel his laughter turn clipped
Smell his breath sour
Note the change in tone
See the fists bunched
Hear him, see him, feel him
When he stands just too close
When he looks just too long
When he sits legs open
A thigh purposefully placed
Pressure applied
When he knows
What you know
When it’s there
By the 2.3 women per week
By the 85000 per year
By the mother
By your sisters
By your TV
By your radio
By your newstand
That fear?
It’s a deadly truth
Believe it

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