Not dirty like the rest of you.
Daddy smiles whenever he see me dance.
Daddy licks. Daddy thrusts.
Daddy's hands fondle my ass cheeks, bludgeoned it,
spread them open,
press against them so i slide forward more.
He's so much stronger than I am.
I let myself fall and feel the rock against my cheek.
I think of how i fell that time,
when I was young, and tried to taste my blood.
And how I always tried to taste my blood when I got cut.
But what I liked to taste was not just mine,
but also which made me bleed.
It was the thing that made the cut, the flavor mixed into the blood.
It was the combination of the two,
the grit that touched the cutter and the flesh.
It was the generosity of both,
and how my bleeding made the two combine.
I think of all this while Daddy moves his cock against the hole,
and pushes hard because its tight.
He pushes hard because its tight,
and pulls my hips against him.
My face gets scraped against the gravel.
My lip begins to bleed.
I taste the blood and salt and earth and pain and fear and trampling.
I taste the blood and all that has been done to it
and lick and give it back to me.
I give me back to me.
And Daddy gives me,too.
"Who gives you what you need?" he asks.
The natural light has fled.
A streetlight shines behind his hair.
I smell the tires.
I smell the sweat and dew.
I feel the walls that crumble into gravel.
I feel the girls who must undo.
"Daddy," I say.
He looks like a monument.