Her Father’s Toilet

Pain.
Piercing, penetrating, prepubescent pain.
A mere wisp of six
Entombed beneath the gnarled breath
And rotting fat of the corpse
I am to call my Father.
Thrown at the jury with
Inherent expectations
Of the ability to explain the events
Of which no child can begin to comprehend.
And I stumble.
No matter how hard I try and try
To explain to them
To make them see…
What was so clear and horrible
The night before.
The way he threatened to tell
And I was the slut.
The way he whispers
How he loves when my pretty little blue eyes
Roll back with pain
How he loves that he knows I can feel
How happy it makes him
But I am insane.
And now, I am his toilet.
Every night, after he’s done with
The little toy that is me
He stands to leave
Not before he pisses
And I will never escape the horror of being his.
No protective service with hundreds of
Phone calls and visits yearly
“She did it to herself”
Yes, I did.
At four, when the lawyer asks you
“Do you want these people to adopt you?”
Yes, I said yes.
Because I knew, deep down, I knew there would never be a choice.
I am a child.
You are an adult.
You win.
You’ve won.
Give me my knife.
Ha ha. Heh.
(gurgle)