When I am four,
for the first time in the school bathroom
I grew up too fast.
I learned about what a human body can do,
what we’re capable of.
And I think and I wonder how she knew,
HOW DID SHE KNOW?
Children mimic what they see,
and as they see they do.
SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE KNOWN.
And I’ve grown to think that this is what children do.
She’s just a child, we’re just children
playing with blocks and getting paint on our smocks,
not stealing them carelessly and scarring young children.
Not having their cake
and eating it too
when it was never meant for you.
I’m six years old
and I’m in my grandmother’s house
and this is where I learned hell for the first time.
l close my eyes and grit my teeth,
but I keep quiet and don’t tell anybody
because I think that’s what good little girls do.
IF BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER, THAN WHY DID YOU USE ME FOR YEARS AND TOSS ME AWAY CARELESSLY?
Why didn’t it scar you
and how can you look me in the face?
STOP FUCKING LOOKING AT ME THAT WAY.
HOW DARE YOU ASK ME IF I HAVE ANOTHER GUY IN MY LIFE,
as though you didn’t gut me like a fish and spit me back out.
You give me panic attacks and crying spells,
and I’m your little stupid bitch that never tells,
because I’m terrified if anyone sees
that they will see just how UGLY
you made me.
AND THIS YEAR I finally admit it out loud.
The social worker asks me why I didn’t confront you about it,
as though it’s as simple as asking someone the time,
as though it’s as simple to look the devil in the eye
and ask why they ripped your nonexistent innocence away.
AND THIS YEAR I’m tripping in the streets, drunk and crying about what you did to me.
And my best friend is holding me up,
telling me it’s okay
and that I didn’t ask for it,
I asked for it, didn’t I?
Sharing my fears,
I’M SCARED I’M ONLY GOOD FOR ONE THING,
google search: how to be untaught that you’re only good for one thing.
AND THIS YEAR I wish I could say recovery had me under it’s wings,
that it didn’t hurt anymore,
but I still can’t look at myself in the mirror sometimes,
I still feel the ghost of your hands,
I still can’t love myself when you took that part of me with you.