It was a Game.
He told me it was a game.
Hands sliding on skin.
On eight year old skin.
On eight. Year. Old. Skin.
He told me it was a game.
The bed. The room.
The feelings I felt.
It was a game.
It wasn't until the I was fifteen that I realized, it wasn't a game.
I knew before that it's wasn't a game, but up until then my mind kept rolling in disbelieving waves that washed over how I felt and told me,
It was a game.
When you call for help you expect to be heard but how can I be heard when I was met by the laugher of those I felt cared.
" Either get over it or tell some one."
But how can I tell some one when I can't even express to myself that it wasn't a game. But how can I tell some one now that he has grown. How can I tell some one now that the other player has grown, how can I do this.
He's such a good boy they say. Hes so respectful they say.
Where was this respect all those years ago?!
How can I tell some one when I am the only one who can remember the rules to this game..
Don't tell, don't move, don't speak. Behave for him. Let him do what he wants. Let him touch what he wants.
But how can I forget..
How can I forget the way his fingers moved on my skin. .
How can I forget his hand on my mouth telling me to be quiet.
How can I forget the game when I have to see the only other player every holiday.
Some how he forgot the game.
But how can I?
This poem is about:
Me
My family