He pokes and prods me with his latex fingers.

He opens my mouth and shines the sun into my eyes.

I try to ignore the stale coffee breath

And the yellow whiskers around his mouth.

 

I hate him.

 

His cheshire smile makes the room feel like winter.

His stethoscope hovers over my pounding organ.

I try to steady my shaking lungs

And wet my chapped lips.

 

I hate this.

 

He curls my hair around his fat index.

He massages my thigh under my pink dress.

I try to watch my show

And focus on mom making dinner.

 

I hate this dress.

 

He places his sweaty hand over my mouth.

He whispers that he will always love me.

I try to not cry out in pain

And wake my sleeping mother.

 

I hate this bed.

 

His panting breath can be heard even after the door is closed.

His lumbering footsteps go down the stairs.

I try to go to the bathroom to wash myself

And clean up the mess on my quaking body.

 

I hate myself.