The heaviest truths are nocturnal, a rising voice when our defenses are down; I've fought this voice a thousand times because I feared it asked for too much. I once pretended the voice was an irrational barrage of What if... questions, fanged neurotic riddles that loved torturing my happiness, but its truth was full of answers and urgent appeals for me to be honest with the truth -- Tell the truth... It tried to love me, but I ignored it as I would graffiti scribbled in crayon, afraid to tell the truth because he, she, they might leave me. It was easier in daylight to pretend the truth wasn't there, the voice that said I didn't really want to have another baby at 40, another baby for him...not another baby...and then another baby...another million years spent underground; I hushed the constant plea, Tell him no. The voice slept by day but talked in its sleep, projected her dreams, silent movies screaming, so I looked away, made lots of noise, kept my hands busy -- busy giving what he wanted... The voice is rising again, injured this time, hoarse like a lover left behind; it wants to know why I left me.