When I was seven,
you blew a hole
in my fucking
soul.
I was only seven.
seven.
A sick day.
But not really.
But really.
The door, it hardly creaked.
I saw, straight away, first thing,
your fat, veiny, stubbly legs,
sharp, yellow, broken toenails,
and that damned, old, fuzzed-balled,
white nightgown. And grease stains.
The lock, it barely made a sound.
I was flat and carved into this twin bed.
Tired, worn out, squeaky. It would whine.
Maybe it was small for a twin.
But you had enough room.
You had the room.
You left it empty.
I, I never slept on that bed again.
I was only seven.
seven.
Even the weight, even the weight,
of your squat, tiny, egg frame,
it was enough
for me
to know,
this isn’t right.
You, you barely made a sound.
A peck on the cheek, a peck on the nose,
then fewer breaks, and then eyes closed.
Thin, dry, pruned, hard lips. Not a drop of moisture.
Hands through my hair, fingers stroking my ears.
“You, you are so handsome.”
Then, then the mouth. The mouth.
I was seven.
only seven.
Your thick, hot breath on my neck.
Coffee, cigarettes, and warm, stale milk.
A few slowly escaping groans,
here and there some muted, muffled moans.
How can I close my ears? How can I close my nose?
I, I wasn’t going to make a sound.
Quicker, labored, shorter bursts.
Your mushy arms were so goddamned weak.
Why can’t you hold yourself up a little more?
Your weight, your weight, heavier, and heavier.
You stared at my barely open mouth, my doll’s eyes
the whole time. The whole time.
I never looked away from the clock in the corner.
That bed, how did that bed never make a sound?
He was fifty feet away.
He was only fifty feet away.
Fifty feet and forever.
Fifty feet and forever.
Fifty feet and just forever.
He, he never heard a sound.
Your white tongue dragged its fucking film
across my face, my ears, my eyes, my neck.
I can’t close my eyes. There’s so much in the dark.
Second hand. Numbers. Dashes. Minute hand. Tick.
Coffee, cigarettes, and warm, stale milk.
I never thought to scrape you off.
My arms were pinned down anyway.
I was only seven.
seven.
Your muscles stiffened.
Mine never stopped.
A pause, a collapse.
All that goddamn weight.
All that goddamn waiting.
A nasal sigh.
A cleared throat.
A look down.
Panting, and a whisper.
“He, he will never,
never talk to you again
if he, if he
ever finds out.”
The bed, it squeaked.
The lock, it clicked.
The door, it creaked.
You, you left it open.
“He’s, he’s still sound asleep.”
I closed my eyes.
The clock, I thought. Seconds. Minutes.
All I wanted,
All I wanted, forever,
was for it to go down.
Just go down.
Just, please, please go down.
I was only seven.
only seven.
and you?
You were fifty-eight.
fifty-eight.
fifty-eight and forever.
Did you, did you ever stop?
Did you ever stop
and think? And think?
He, he is seven.
I, I am fifty-eight,
and he is only seven?