my skin is hot. fevered. demanding
to be soothed. touched. satisfied.

have i gone crazy? i have never, ever
done such a thing. never unlocked
this private room inside of me. never
ever wanted to take a look inside.

am i possessed? entered by a demon,
chained and padlocked, inside of myself?
i feel possessed, taken by some evil,
sick desire. desire i can’t control.

what is wrong with me? i don’t want
this. oh god. it can’t feel good.

but it does.
it does.
does.

chokes me. strangled me.
it was dark in my room.
very dark.
someone had closed the curtain.
i was small. maybe nine.
mommy wasn’t home.
but daddy was.
he lurched through my door.
that scared me. but why?
he’d never hurt me before.
only touched me lovingly.
like any daddy.
so why did i tremble?
why did i catch my breath,
hold it, as if
i might never breathe again?
why did my heart feel
like a race-car engine?
daddy must have heard it.
                                  Don’t be afraid, little flower.
                                  It’s only me.
and almost instantly, daddy
made everything seem just fine.
even when it wasn’t.

daddy’s obsession
with my sister strikes at the
heart of me. but looking at it real
objectively, i think i understand. she’s
soft. pliable. gullible. it’s easy enough to
believe his declaration that should someone
root out his secrets, he’ll swallow a bullet.

you know, he just might, though i see him
as much more likely to pick up that gun
and shout mom, especially if he’s on
a ******. more and more of those
lately, both for him and for
me. my own obsession.
falling in to a state
of numb.

daddy fractured our world,
titled it off it’s axis, sent it
careening out of control.
that was before the day
his own impairment
made him overcorrect,
****
the mercedes onto unpaved
shoulder, then back
across two lanes of traffic,
and over the double yellow
lines, head-on into traffic.
that was before the one-ton
truck sliced the passenger
side wide open. that was
before premature death, battered
bodies, and scars no plastic
surgeon could ever repair.
yes, that was before

normal
is what’s normal for me.
i’ve got nice clothes,

nicer than most. Pricy
things that other girls would
**** for, or shoplift, if they

could get away with it.
i have a room of my own,
decorated to my taste

and most of the time
when i’m home, i
hang out in

there, alone. listen to music.
read. do my homework.
what more could a girl ask

for, right? i mean,
my life really isn’t so bad.
is it?