Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Hear Me.

He said I was made for him,
knew that I wouldn’t say a word.
He’s confused the absence of voice for acceptance
Pleading for him to stop.
No, in any language should be deafening,
he refused to look at me.
Said I wanted it
and fighting would only make
this last longer.
Feel better.
Wish my eyes were gouge out the same time that my voice was,
Never been unwilling to read lips
felt his swollen lips rake over my skin,
I am sure the surface was distorted by sun along with his sense of family.
Heavy hands wrapped around petite waist,
I was made just for him.
Being your brother’s daughter does not
mean off limits just easier to get to.
Role playing , his favorite weapon.
He, the master
I, the slave.
He always picked rooms with mirrors
coronas capturing every agonizing moment.
Said, seeing us together
in reflections would
turn his sin into our salvation.
I didn’t find any salvation
Just his sweat, mixed with my tears
and a shredded hymens mingles into the same fractures of my childhood.
I didn’t notice when his curled toes and body spasms overwhelmed him.
All I could see was a little girl,
Screaming at me to save her,
I watched as life slowly seeped from
her beautiful brown eyes,
cut wrist to know she still had some left to keep fighting.
These positions and visions are nothing new.
This temple has not been my own since I was 13.
now ,16. Breast and hips are too fully formed
To hide my uncle weekly play dates.
But no one say nothing. No one sees nothing.
I am tired of fighting,
From the life that God thinks I am strong enough for.
But sometimes, I am just a girl named Amanda,
who loves reading, hates math
and looks more and more like the mother that my uncle could never get over.
I want to say:
“Help me”
“No more”
This voice is getting stronger
I live for the day when he will
Finally hear my voice through the cracks of my fingertips and his love.

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