July 2, 2014
You don’t have to show me that bible again.
I trust you,
I believe you,
you were innocent.
But this is now and that was then.
You call this a holy house, yet you lived in sin.
I was never quite sure why you let him in.
You would close your eyes and try to pretend
you would cry yourself to sleep until your tears were spent.
You knew it had been had been happening since I was ten.
Blood in my sheets—colours I can’t forget.
You’d turn around after you’d count to ten;
tell yourself lies about what I underwent.
You’ll tell yourself that until the very end.
Virgin mother, I said my prayers.
Oh why mama? Why weren’t you there?