When I was fourteen,
My father told me I never had to see the man who molested me again.
For a long time, I accepted this as gospel
Avoidance covered my fingertips
I could touch it
But now,
It's something seemingly intangible.
It was an idea that gave false security to the mind
Allowed the senses to relax
And, in a sense,
Gave you permission to believe this didn't happen.
Logically, you know the facts are all there on a silver platter
The horrible details of his brand of abuse
Are spread out on a plate
But since you do not have to see him
The lustrous metal lid covers these items
They are there, but they're not.
They happened, but I do not really have to deal with them.
It is like an optical illusion that I am perfectly happy to view at face value
I do not want to deal with the disaster he put me through
Thinking of him as an idea is easier
Recognizing him as a person is hard.
If you get to close to it,
It burns the first layer of skin off.
I do not want to feel his fire
Of the mess he left behind.
But now,
Seeing him is inevitable
As if watching my grandfather deteriorate within the shell that is his skin
Is not painful enough
I get the pleasure of enduring these blisters and burns
All over the palms of my hands
The soles of my feet
It is not fair that he gets the walk away stainless
And I am covered in blood and scars
While treading through a pool of sweat.
So when daddy said I would not have to see him again
He did not consider that my Pop pop would get ill
I wish I could have his idealistic intentions
Be my reality.
But when I see my abuser again,
I will cover up my scars with pride.
I will stand with my back arched as I tremble in my shoes
He has already taken enough from me
And I will not give him the satisfaction
Of seeing the destruction he left behind.