Mom, it’s not your fault. You wrapped me up in a floral vomit jacket and clutched my cold fingers as you led me to his front door. I was thrashing against your hold, but I swear, I wasn’t making myself do it. It was the Touch; the moist, searing, nauseating Touch. It wasn’t your strained explanations of how you had to work the night shift at the hospital, or of how Uncle Joe was doing us a huge favor by letting me stay with him, that quieted me. No--it was your tired gray eyes that sapped the strength from my flailing limbs.

When the sun lost hope that night, so did I. The mangled sheets constricted my body like a cocoon. My mouth heaved with globs of cluttered screams. I don't want that slimy feeling again. When he sat down on the bed, I played dead--but my asthmatic breathing was too alive. As his sweaty hand slid up my leg, leaving a trail of clammy dirt running down my thigh, I realized that silence was like old, ragged Mr. Teddy. Even though his velvety fur could catch my tears, his stuffed body would never protect me.

The Touch grew more urgent, more pressing as I rushed, much too fast, into maturity. He thought my fist-sized breasts were beautiful. He told me this as he tweaked my nipples through the padded fabric of my first bra. Spandex and lace might have made me feel like a real lady, but they somehow neglected to shield me from the Touch.

It’s funny how you didn’t want me to stay home alone when I was in high school. You insisted that I stay the night at his house. You thought I would get high with my friends and have sex with a nameless boy on the kitchen table. You wanted me to always stay clean and pure. You didn’t want me to be contaminated by the wandering hands of bad influence. It makes me so damn depressed to think about the irony. It makes me so damn angry.

Each time I didn’t tell you, the shame sitting on my chest got a little heavier. The Touch got a little bolder. My oversized t-shirts got frumpier and my sweatshirts got baggier. The truth was always hanging on the edge of my tongue, viscous and sweet, like honey. But I knew the sugary molecules would melt into accusations and tears when released. I was the culprit for forgetting how to scream, for letting the Touch rot in my core.

Mom, it’s not your fault. I know it’s mine. Someday I’ll learn to scream.