Training for future

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a poem about how a father trains his teenage daughter for her future to please her husband.

© All copyrights reserved to Kenisha Liyanage

Submitted: April 30, 2015

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Submitted: April 30, 2015

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Every day before the sun shines,
Even before the birds sing minor,
I get up and do house chores.

Despite the pain in finger tips,
I cook the best means in my world,
Please don't say I don't as I do my best.

Everyday the same routine,
Never changes unless I am bad,
When I am bad the birds screech.

I am a teenager with no friends,
Or at least I don't like to socialise,
Better to stay alone than talk to strangers.

My DEAR father has a fine pen,
That's what you would say, but I don't,
It's actually a knife disguised as a pen.

Every morning after preparing breakfast,
I go to school and come back without staying,
At sharp in the dot he is there at home.

Today he has caught a chicken from his head,
Or at least that's what he said to me,
No explanation needed as he is he.

There he demonstrates how to cook a chicken,
How cold, he is - is displayed from his behaviour,
He snaps the throat of the bird using his hands.

Next comes to my lesson time of the day,
The one that I hate the most of my life,
Why do I need lessons or even go out of the house?

My DEAR father says that I should get prepared for this,
So he took me to the red room like my mother,
I wonder how my mother even lived so far.

Here I learn how to serve for my future husband,
If I survive to even do that, of course,
I may look like a teenager, but I'm old as a dog.

Now here am I showing all the physical bruises,
Even the crow who can land see every inch of it,
But gladly no one can see anything at all.

As usual, he sits on his comfortable chair,
I do best as his sport as I as a minor bird,
I know I will have to - to become a major bird.

I undress myself and dance for him,
I shake everything and try to warm the air,
I then sit on his lap and let him feed from him.

The drugs are never wearing off,
Hence, more tension is built as he needs more,
He takes the nectar out of this flower.

Then he ties me in the usual place,
My hands up high and could say in the sky,
And there he keeps all the whips in the world.

I'm like a horse tolerating the slashes,
Every lash is a sign of blood desire,
The cuts and bruises invite the party.

Don't look at my butt as it's ugly when uncovered,
The scars never fade so is the heat,
I hate to sit on the stove, but I have to cook myself.

Here I learn to please singular desires,
As he touches every millimetre I belong,
Disgust is not a word in my world.

I please him the best not to get punished,
I don't like to be the punching bag,
Apart from being his sex slave.

I'm not strong to stand against booze and drugs,
I'm only the cure and medicine,
As long as I play along.

That bad part is not that I have to play along,
If I don't feed desire properly, it gets worse,
Then comes the party of blood as guest invite.

I hope one day things will be all right,
No screaming or yelling or pulling my hair,
Nor touching or hitting or opening my skin.

My skin is so rough not like I want,
The salt inside my body never heals at all,
My bare open skin is not what you want.

I want my life to go back to normal,
SO everyone stand up and say no to violence,
I am mute as my throat is so dry and filled with fear.

 


© Copyright 2018 Kenisha Liyanage. All rights reserved.

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