Remember that man who came to her in her sleep and gently moved her nightgown to the side to play with her vagina while whispering that she was a bad girl? Well, he only came hours after her bedtime and he never turned on the lights.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear that he would make her feel better and told her not to tell anyone. He was gentle. He never talked, just breathed fast and hard.

She didn’t move, didn’t say a word. She wasn’t sure what to do really. It felt good and bad. Really really bad.

One day she came up with an idea. She thought that if she took her blanket and made it into a taco, folding it on the side he always put his hands under, he would go away, because the side where the blanket was open was against the wall. Not only that, but she had tucked it under herself so that in essence, it was not open and she was cocooned.

When he came in the next night he felt around the usual areas but was blocked. When he whispered her name she played dead. She felt him stand there forever before he decided to leave.

It worked.

After he stopped spending the night with her mom she adopted the habit of wearing a full set of clothes to bed. Bralet, underwear, thermals, a nightgown and socks.

When she got older she adopted the habit to her day wear, usually pairing her bra with an undershirt, another over that and occasionally her sweater. She hated her body. She hated anyone that looked at her body.

When she got older she started to experiment with leaving home without so many layers. Eventually it extended to nighttime and she stopped wearing a bra and underwear to bed.

It worked.

She learned that she is not always in danger. Regardless, sometimes she feels edgy and the feeling that someone has their hands on her never really left.

She knows she’s not damaged yet feels that if someone were shopping for a person to love, and people were moving boxes, they would choose her last because she looked damaged, like she couldn’t carry much yet simultaneously would be difficult to carry and her satin packing tape seemed overused and likely too weak to hold things in without the contents spilling out.

She knows cardboard is weak and that she is not made of weak material but her packing tape is another story.

The clothes she uses to cover her body, the thoughts she uses to cover her mind, the pain she ignores to cover the yearning of her soul. Sometimes it feels freedom has forever been locked up within her, that she is a self-made cocoon.

Every time a wing attempts to escape she finds packing tape and spins another over the old.

It has worked.

Perhaps someone will enter and help her remove her silk gown because her wings have grown comfortable in the gentle breeze of satin exits.