I grew up when I was fourteen-years-old.
The morning I woke up a child
and went to bed a woman.
The day I was informed of a time I never would remember.
A day I now wish I could easily forget.
The day that everything changed.

It started with a touch.
A touch I never remember feeling.
A touch from a man I do not remember,
I cannot remember, I will never forget.
A touch, a kiss, a taste.

I needed protection
Separation
Division between several state lines, even.
From a man in my life whose job it was to protect me.

A man whose job it was to love me
And love me, he did.
The touching. The kissing. The tasting.

I could barely walk
Could barely speak,
Daddy loved me so much.
And I was hardly three.

I may have been too young to remember,
But knowing it happened still changed everything.
Knowing that he didn’t have to pay for what he did
Because the same thing happened to him by his own father.
And so the cycle continues, yet another generation.
I vow to break that fucking cycle.

I call bullshit that he couldn’t control himself.
Bullshit, that he could not control himself from violating his daughter
His little girl.
His princess. Me.
From taking away MY womanhood
Before I even knew how to pronounce it.
Before I could make the decision myself
to become a Queen.

I rarely touched my vagina after that day
The day I became a woman at fourteen-years-old.
I didn’t even want to look at it.
It was a constant reminder of him,
Of where his mouth had been.
The same mouth which expressions of his love for me exuded
Over the phone, In my Birthday cards, In my vagina.

I hated the phone.
I hated my Birthday.
I hated my vagina.
I hated myself.

There are plenty of people who actually remember:
A touch. A kiss. A taste. A nightmare.

I felt stupid for feeling something.
I’d give anything to not feel:
Blame. Shame. Guilt. Hatred.

I broke up my family the day I became a woman.
I was my father’s mistress,
I was “the other woman,”
The seducer.
And his wife, my own mother,
took my side anyway.
I split up my family because of my vagina.
I hated my vagina.

My vagina was the reason
That I grew up without a father,
That I haven’t seen my half-sister for over seventeen years.
That my mother was always so unhappy,
That I could never fill that void in my heart,
With purging, cutting, running.
None of that could make my vagina go away.
None of that could change what happened.
My vagina broke my family.
My vagina broke me.

It started with a touch.
A touch I never remember feeling.
A touch from a man I do not remember,
I cannot remember, I will never forget.
A touch, a kiss, a taste.

So much about my life has changed since that day.
The day I decided to speak out about my vagina.
It’s been two years of healing, of therapy, of heartache, of sharing.
I learned to relinquish the feelings about myself that my father should have felt.
I’m blameless, guiltless, and not at fault.
My vagina is not the perp, it has done nothing wrong.
It is deserving of love, as am I.

Forgive and forget? Fuck no.
I say start healing and remember.
Share your story.
So that others, too, may share their stories
and no longer have to live in silence.