I should probably tell you the truth. I am afraid of more than just quicksand. I am afraid of shadowed nights and falling. I am afraid of violet mornings, quiet and empty, and coming undone. I am afraid of being one of your other girls, carried like a gem, shattered like glass. That night you put fingers deep in my mouth, gentle circular motions on my inflamed gums, your eyes pained and bored, it’s tender there, you say, how bad does it hurt? I’m tender everywhere, I try to say, but your fingers are jammed in my mouth.