A Prologue and Six Parrts of a reaction poem to a young woman's remembrance |
Prologue At twenty brittle years of ragged age my blood runs cold, my arms repel those arms that hold me love expected still rejected thrust into the deepest hell. Bowels twist and crush in vain my every love's attempts to reach and heat my frigid hate eternal captured by your stone grey eyes that still in death, Daddy, yours, still haunt me, taunt in death with your dead claws that scraped my virgin shell apart that bloodied stain spilled from my child's waxen flow where none should go not YOU, Daddy, strange savage in disguise, dead craven with dead eyes that first attacked me, only eight. One: The Regression I thought I had forgotten you, damned beast you are, who never really left that day, that night you died. My eyes were shut like shades to block the light of day until my love had words to say that sounded so like words of rote you, Daddy, uttered breathlessly. My memory regurgitated, abrupt, those thoughts left dead with you, I thought, until gut-wrenching gasps hurled vomit, mine, past kisses down his throat. That happened yesterday. I again dry heave often an empty retch no chunks of vivid bursts in me to hurl the last gone with my love his hungry mouth too full of me instead of mine with him. This happens every day I try to love a man in love with me, he thinks, until closed tight my eyes to shut you out from my fatherless memory, Daddy, you, no father real of mine, return. Life stinks! Two: Recollection Remember, a dozen years ago I learned to love like you -- twelve years remembered -- taught by you, not to love, just what to do not with but to you -- things you loved me do but which I hate now, did then, to you, Mister, and I am different for the experience because, even now, I hesitate and they who really care now don't debate; they leave me one by one -- not one can wait for me to overcome that horrid date what happened just a dozen years ago by you, Mister, when I was young, too young -- you knew, and still you did what you wanted to leave your ego satisfied. I'd rather to have quickly died! But, it's too late. Then, I was eight. Three: The Transgression You often came to me in the night to give a little hug and longer good night kiss but when I closed my eyes, I saw you leave and wiped away the spit you left behind still clinging to my still quivering lips where your calloused, thick tongue snake-like split -- pried both of them apart my scared but angry mouth, my scarred, torn, sacred youth. On top of me your pounding flesh and pounding heart pressed relentlessly. You never left those languid, steamy nights -- your stinking adult sweat drenched my sheets, pillow case your sticky semen dripping from my crinkled lace. You stand just watching in the shadows - a frozen smirk carved on your wrinkled face knowing nothing I could say would stop your coming any other day or night into my private room, too late to stop you coming in my private doom watch you masturbate myself unwilling to cooperate not knowing why or how you captured my reluctant heart and trampled it beneath your feet and hands defiling every part of me fulfilling what your filth demands each torrid day, each restless night for twelve long years since on that date you killed my life when I was eight. Four: The Repetition When evening turned to night from darkest day, I knew the constant terror would repeat itself so long as you, Mister, called yourself my Daddy, dear, though we both knew it wasn't true that you were husband and a father, too, to someone else, a wife who thought you dear, and your own son, my age, I think, or near enough that I should wonder why you needed me at all to do what frightens me but pleases you, or if you spread that child's legs as well to put him through this senseless hell that leaves me nightly nude and numb shorn of my virtue, left unsaved for whom I wanted to succumb one future day in marital passion, conjugal bliss, my love, my dear, innocent, intact; but you, with Daddy locked on your lips, rough fingers on my thighs and hips, my door ajar and window cracked a bit to let air in as you let out some pants less gasses, panting gasps, YOU, not I, fulfilled without a doubt. I felt the flow as you ejaculate upon my untried body, let it out, yes, let it slip -- let fluid seep you loose the grip you cannot keep -- I lose my self in pretend sleep. You watch my tears flow, salty, sweaty, silent fear overwhelming me , blow by blow (you'll never know how every breath prayed these twelve years your certain death would free me from the chains that fate condemned and bound me, locked tight around me) hammered by your anvil fist, too young and useless to resist when I was eight. Five: Propitiation But they continued, grim display for ten years since that horrid day when first you leered since when you sneered at family, friends, but not your id -- the secrets of your life you hid from children and your simple wife who looked the other way and let you in your fantasy play while thinking all the while, Don't touch that kid! But, Daddy, dear, you did, and now you've paid a decade deep in debt you're lying here for lying there dead the eyes wide open in your head screaming, HELP! to me. I left for regions far away ten years ago, ten years today, and hoped you had forgotten who I was and what I did and didn't do -- for you, Mister, who thought, by saying "Daddy" I would quit withstanding understanding that all your love was lust for me; but, now, I know far better, Sir, that those games of your fantasy were nothing what you said they were. Here, mother living all alone, I visiting, she, stagnant, sterile, sits inert by window sill beholding nothing sure since her husband, my real Daddy died, and you emerged with proper form, indeed, sprung forth like sudden summer storm, a seed of evil surging from your curséd will. You should have fled, as I did; you should have died, as I did. But, you didn't, be damned your soul to hell, because you killed me, took the life that's mine, abused and used me as your concubine, and warned me not to tell. I couldn't, and no one ever knew but you and me about your dark depravity. Six: Termination Your image filled again that ancient hall and loomed before me years ago, and now, I'm older, though you can't recall how young I was back then, nor how you could maneuver and manipulate me, then an innocent child of eight. But, you tried again, as many times before, and failed to reach me failed to breach my barricade nor break my morals any more. You kept your distance, tried enticing, pleas and promises, all too late. While stroking blindly thunder struck and stopped abruptly stiffened limbs mid-thrust, mid-stroke, arhythmically, it stopped, at last that frigid heart, that coldly violated me twelve years ago, this very date, when I was just a girl of eight. I cannot move from this same room where my hot tears had washed the floor, had splashed the door you closed cannot help you holding out your cramping hands with pubic hair stuck to the sweaty seams it seems, fresh semen clinging to the flaccid tip belt cleaving far below the hip unzipped, sagging to the knees, your vacant stare still begging, "PLEASE, help me! my -- heart," but, now, there was no part of me to hear or help you -- nothing that I want to do. I let you crumple to the floor, dying and smiled wanly, lying the first time in so many years that I cared, and waited for so many tears for you to die, like this, your hands full of yourself instead of me and I smiled, broadly could not help but say out loud, "Thank GOD you're gone," killed by your sin and I am free. At last, I win. A dozen years ago, till now, with hate I lived and died, since I was eight. I don't look back upon your dead remains -- your rotting corpse. I walk away with hope one day one night, those memories will die, and I -- and I will finally LIVE! |