I saw him today. I knew it was him the second he caught my eye. I know every feature of his body -- it is tattooed on mine, after all.

He seemed smaller, yet his hands seemed bigger, like they could just crush the air out of my lungs again.

My breath caught in my lungs and I started to cry, but quickly made myself stop. He has stolen so many tears from me, I just can't cry over him anymore. That, and I didn't want to cause a scene at work, though I tripped over a display and knocked a shelf to the ground, spreading file folders all over. But I didn't stop to pick them up. I hid away in the backroom until I felt it was safe to come out: a child under the covers.

Has the boogie man slinked away to the closet again? Did the monster crawl back under the bed? Is he gone?

What troubles me the most is that a co-worker who doesn't know a damn thing about me knew that something was wrong, but the person who I love and live with didn't even notice something was crawling on my skin.