Dear me,

Do you remember that old concrete house?

All the twisted and skinny roads you had to take.

The roads all frail and muddy and uneven.

Can you smell the distinct alcohol rub

great-grandma Mary uses for her swollen feet?

And great-grandpa Pablo always welcomed you

with wide arms the color of a dark chocolate bar.

His rough hands held your cheeks while he kissed your forehead.

He was so tall you had to almost look at him at the ceiling.

Do you remember?

And that giant patio, which grass hadn't been cut in months.

The dark and cold basement with low ceiling

scared you to death.

Great-grandpa Pablo stored gallons of water down there

and all sorts of provision for emergencies.

There were no lights, so you had to use a flashlight.

The ceiling was so low, and the mud walls were so damp

it felt like the entire house would fall and crush you underneath it.

It was all so interesting.

Except this one person who did not belong there.

You don't like him,

You know there is something wrong,

yet you don't say anything.

Always be nice, polite and educated.

But he wasn't polite.

When grandma Beatrice went to the kitchen with your brother

He'd tell you to stay in the room with him.

You didn't want to, but you knew you had to.

He'd wrap his hand around your waist.

He'd touch you everywhere.

He told you he wanted to see something.

Just to make sure everything is okay.

He took off your pants

and told you to lay at the edge of the bed

with your legs wide open.

What is he doing?

You wanted to go with grandma Beatrice and your brother

But he held you there

and told you not to scream.

He took off his pants and

pushed his penis into your

four-year-old vagina.

It burns.

You tell him it hurt and nearly start to cry

So, he stops and let you go.

You look at yourself in the dirty mirror

of the wooden vanity

next to the old canopy bed.

This is not the first time.

You know this will continue.

he will keep touching you where he shouldn't

He will keep holding you back

from going with grandma Beatrice and your brother.

You don't like him.

You can't say it.

You hate it.

No one knows what he does to you.

No one would believe a four-year-old.

She has such an imagination.

You are alone.

With him.

In a room.

Exposed in a bed.

Awake at night.

Confused.

Is this wrong?

Is this right?

Your four-year-old mind can't decide.

It's not your fault.

 

Att,

Julyanice

This poem is about: 
Me

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