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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: April 20, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 20, 2017



The abuse started 
She was only three 
Only just learned to sit on a potty 
Only just  learnt how to pee
Without the aid of a nappy 

she heard the door creek 
A shadow loomed 
The covers rolled back 
The mattress sank in 
she felt his warm breath against her skin 

she lay frozen
she dare not move 
she  watched the silhouettes
Dance on her wall 

The next morning 
she washed and dressed 
she felt dirty 
Now feels fresh 

The night dawns 
she hears the door creak 
Little footsteps,
in they sneak
she closes her eyes
pretends to sleep 
then feels his cold feet 

The next morning
She’s washed and dressed 
The evidence gone 
her mum no wiser 
She wouldn’t have known 
She’s always drunk on cider

The darkness looms once more 
Footsteps pad across her bedroom floor 
the covers lift 
her warmth escapes 
his hand now brushes 
her tiny face 

she wakes the next morning 
the sun shines brightly 
the finger prints 
left on her hiny 

The night comes 
she knows what to expect 
And just as she thought 
In he crept, and slips into her bed 
She  hears his vile words inside her head 

They said,” don’t you dare tell,
I can make your life a living hell
Anyway your mother don’t care 
She's content getting drunk on pears 
So who can you tell?
No one that’s who 
Be grateful I show you
the love that I do”

So here she remains 
In her version of hell 
Being told she is loved 
My a man that’s not well 

The years went by 
Her  mother no wiser 
Still content
getting drunk 
On her cider
Year by year
This little girl 
Became wiser
And wiser

Many a night 
she cried herself to sleep 
Holding tightly to her covers 
Waiting for that door to creek 
Waiting for those feet to sneak 
Waiting for the night to repeat
hoping she wouldn’t feel his cold feet 
Hoping and praying
he would just go to sleep 

she’s now eighteen 
her mother is dead 
Seems the alcohol  
Messed with her head 
She took some pills 
Then took a bath 
Sank under the water 
And never came back 

As for her dad 
Well he’s where he belongs 
In Wentworth prison 
where pedophiles roam 
he’s right at home 
no contact 
not even by phone 

her memories of love 
now washed away 
it was abuse not love
at the end of the day 

But she was to small back then 
To tell anyone 
She thought it was affection 
Little did she know 
her mind needed correction 
To the difference between abuse and affection

© Copyright 2018 J A OVERTON. All rights reserved.