Abuse, Alienation From Self, Child Sexuality, Children, Sexuality, Sexualization

If I Got My Hands on You

(About a 2 minute read)

TRIGGER WARNING: Childhood sexual abuse.

 

How many ways
Can you fuck up a child
That will fuck
Her up for life?

I’ve seen your work.
You’re a sick fuck
And a craftsman alright.

Emily, Diane,
Paula, and Tomoko,
Others I knew less well,
Were all turned
On your lathe
And to your standards.

She lacks boundaries now.
Knows every innuendo
In the English language,
Sticks her hands
Down boy’s pants,
Jumps from bed to bed,
Slow dances with your leg
Between her thighs
At too young an age,
Trying to make sense
Of what all you did before
You tossed her naked
In the finished bin.

She talks in even, objective tones
About her profane second birth
About the things you did
To shape the life she now has.

She grew up
Through the cracks
Though you pave over her.
But her roots are shallow,
Her leaves small and gnawed,
Stems short and thin.

Still she keeps coming back.
You’ve got to hand it to her:
Still she keeps coming back
Whenever someone cuts her,
Wacks her down again

People say, “You’re a slut”,
Not knowing it’s you
Who was first a slut to her,
You who turned her one.

People say, “Why the anger?”.
People say, “Why the hate?”,
And “Stop teasing me, bitch.”

They don’t know and I doubt
Even you know all that you did.

Sometimes you turn them worse
Than you usually do:
Volcanic tempers and abusers
Themselves.

You can still love her
Like that — it’s not like
She’s nothing more than her abuse.
But you must leave her anyway.
It’s either you or her
In the end.

You crucified me too.
Thrust your lance in my heart
I’ve paid in blood and in tears
For her that I loved.

You fuck with a child,
You fuck her friends too,
You fuck her lovers hard,
You fuck everyone who
Will ever love her,

Everyone who will ever
Come close enough to care,
Close enough to know
The machine marks
For what they are.

You’re the weed man,
The wacker, the monster
And the centurion all.
Your the prince of darkness
That’s darker than black.

No matter how fine the suits
That you wear, no matter how many
Cars that you race, no matter how many
Bibles that you own,
You’re a pig.

I won’t tell you what I’d do,
If I got my hands on you —
Even you would not believe it,
Even you would be unprepared.

You’d never die under my hands.
I’d never let you die.

11 thoughts on “If I Got My Hands on You”

      1. I know why you did it (I’ve considered doing it myself) but I reserve the right to castigate you for it. You’re like the old person who demands that someone visits instead of getting a telephone.

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  1. Bingo! I’m transparent to you! Castigate away, if you must, but I am — true fact — one of those people who can be so old fashion he still does not own a portable phone, or whatever you call those little things people talk into these days. 😀

    Like

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