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.