With a compelling voice in a powerful story of experience with pedophilia, Jackie Bluu surges forward with a righteous desire for her trauma to be recognized and known. The piece doesn’t hide or sugar-coat; Bluu offers a clear view of her years enduring violence and is admirably open in sharing her scars.



by Jackie Bluu


My stepfather is a predator. Like animals in the wild who carefully watch their prey, camouflaged in tall grasses, he patiently waited as I “transformed into a woman”. I could not understand why he was so ecstatic when my first period appeared the day before my tenth birthday. My mom gave me a head nod, while he expressed utter joy as if he won a million dollar jackpot. I was confused. I wanted to believe that he was just excited about this new milestone in his stepdaughter’s life – that he was so proud of this new journey that awaited me. But at that very moment, the parental role he played in my life for that short time had already ventured off, and his penis grew larger than his parental instinct. At that moment he was no longer filling in as my replacement father. At that exact moment, I became his prey. 

The hunt started at a slow pace – tiptoes toward my bedroom door at opportune times, when my mother was absent; seemingly innocent sneaky hugs from behind when eyes were gazing elsewhere; inappropriate whispers in my ears when too many bodies were near. You see, he took his time, attacked with diligence and control, the hunger in his eyes plated with smirks of lust. I hated it. 

But when your mother was dependent on the abuser and Tuesday’s lunch money was stashed in his pockets, what could you have done but accept the emotional torture? You could not tear an entire family of four apart for your own selfish discomfort could you? What of your little brother? A toddler with no understanding of the world around him. To him, his daddy was nothing but a hero who deserved the loudest screech upon his arrival home and the tightest welcome hug as he walked through the door. Meanwhile, I had to adhere to my regular duties – bowing down on the shaggy carpet, and then removing his shoes one by one, and then his socks, one by one. Sometimes I wanted to ask: “Should I also kiss your toes?” Would that have made him feel even more powerful I wonder. Shame. “Why couldn’t he just be normal? “ I constantly thought.

That said, I decided to write him a letter:

I did not ask for my fathers soul to evade his flesh years earlier and be replaced by a monster. I did not want him replaced at all, but if he had to be, I would have certainly preferred that it had been a real father figure. I did not know what a pedophile was because I never had the displeasure of interacting with one. But hello, it was not nice to meet you. 

I never asked you to happily slip your hands under my shirt while breathing heavily with excitement and invade my abdomen like you were searching for golden treasure. Blood filling your penile veins like a waterfall rushing into a river. What was the obsession with my stomach anyway? It was just a stomach. But of course that was not your intended destination – It was just a warmup to your sport, a foreplay to your twisted sexual escapade, a treasure expedition to your piracy scheme. You make me sick. 

Hey remember that time you finally wandered your way down further to explore the deeper part of the sea? When you finally went past the cotton fence but stopped just in time – I think a familiar voice interrupted your adventure. It probably slipped your mind shortly after it happened, but I was left with an ugly scar for months, as if you purposely marked me, like a lost drifter in the woods marking his way with jellybeans until he finally discovers his path and plants a flag at the desired location. You ruined me – physically and emotionally. I was grossed out at that scar, but mostly confused as to how a finger could have even left such a hideous mark for such a long period of time. Its like my body was allergic to your touch. Just like I am allergic to your presence on Earth.

My letters to him are always in staccatos so I stop for now. Tomorrow I will write a completely different angry letter. Bare with my pain – it is still in the womb. 

Like a snake in a forest he laid dormant until, driven with opportunity, he pounced on me with all his might. Then he reverted back to his camouflage, unfazed, with an entire notebook filled with lies and denials for the courtroom and friends. Convincing they must have been, sitting on his high chair like the corrupt king he pretended to be, while I was left with the extremely burnt end of the stick. But that’s a story for a different day. Today I am left emotionally stranded by a physical indiscretion – pocketed, chewed up and spit back up. I am left to pick up the remaining pieces of my life, and surprisingly have done quite well despite the odds, with many definitions as to what “well” implies exactly. For me it is a plate of unhealthy ambition with a side of mental illness yet to be mended. But alas, no one is perfect right? 

As for my scar, it is now covered by various layers of skin – a hidden but omnipresent reminder of a vicious attack by a horrible beast. 



Jackie Bluu is a contemporary poet and author of many words. She recently self-published her first chapbook titled “Facing the Beast” in which she depicts her struggle coming to terms with past sexual abuse and her battle with depression. She is currently working on a poetry book titled “Not Another Love Story”. Jackie is the editor of literary and arts zine, FishFood. She lives in Brooklyn, NY with her fiance and pets Fishy and Paulie. You can find more of her work on her Instagram page – @jackie_bluu.