In Appreciation of Pants

Mon, 11/10/2014 - 00:17 -- Yarnold


I`m standing in the dark

"kiss it"

he tells me

it`s my parent`s restroom

he`s standing between me and the door

he`s looming

and I am alone

"kiss it."

louder this time

the tiles are cold on my bare feet

I want my bright pink capris back

"kiss it"

I squeek like a polising cloath on a bycicle

because I`m frightened

because I figured it out

"I don`t want to."

"Kiss it."

his penus is in my face

it`s rather unpleasant

and then I`m crying

like a wounded moose

I thnk there`s something about an eight year old girl`s tears

that cuts through the bullshit

like acid in a spy movie

he lets me wash my hands

and face

he gives me back my pants


I`d tell my parents three days later

"He could go to jail." my mother looks at me

and that`s that

and I am alone

late at might I`m in my restroom

washing my hands

the skin is soar

little peices of gauze cover the cheese grater marks

that mark my arms legs and belly

I fall of the bike sometimes


my parents are sleep

and I am alone


Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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