He called me his little good girl:
it was less of a compliment, more a command
that if I did not follow every order,
he would tell on us. I had to walk with his limp
so he would not derail my secrets, make

my boyfriend mad. It only worked because
I was acting like a bad, bad girl
with someone old enough to be my dad.

I remembered he could put a gun
down my throat if I misbehaved or wore a skirt
too long or too short, too pink or too black
or if I seemed too happy or too sad –
good girls have no emotions, just let men take

their breath away. I panted under my sheets
and I came to the thought once,
soon after, this man, he made me bleed.