Poor young girl
I dared to cry
Little did I know
my dad would
“Try to make me feel better”

He would pull his shirt over his face
So I wouldn’t see his expressions
The things that make him human
But I would see his stomach
And I would see him chasing me around the house

“No!”
I would shout
I didn’t want the hug
I didn’t want the hug
I didn’t want the hug
He was scary

But I was little
And not so fast
So he would grab me

I was trapped
In my mind
In the house
And in his arms clutched against his bare, hairy chest

And maybe I never truly left there
Trying hard to believe that he was truly trying to help me
Trying to be okay
Trying to stop what he was doing from hurting me constantly
Trying
Trying
Trying

I have since recovered slightly
With meds, poetry, and therapy
but I still feel the squeeze of his hands sometimes
I still his chest hair against my neck
I still feel the fear of a switch
The fear that someone will get angry

I’m still a little trapped
And a little afraid to cry