My Story Three

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My Story Three

The next memory was many years later, I was 9 or 10.
I knew that I was alone in the house with him
I remember him touching me, and we were squirming away
He slapped us and thres us down on a near by bed.
We tried to get up and run but he threw us
back on the bed. He tied our arms to the head
board. I thought about screaming, but when we
opened our moth he stuffed a dirty sock in our mouth.
When he was through he got up and left. I must have
passed out or something, because the next thing I remember
was my aunt untying my hands crying.

Up until this point, we felt that she was not innocent of what
he had been doing, and she was covering up for him.
But as soon as we were free we became hysterical, and
we had cried all day, our aunt took us to the doctor
and the doctor gave us a shot to quiet us down.

I remember the room spinning, and the colors, laughing
at us. I vaguely remember going home, that
day. We remember him coming from work that day, hot
and sweaty, telling the aunt she could go home,
and that the boys (I had two older brothers)
were going to be spending the night with their grandpa
and grandma, and that he would cook me supper
that night, I remember the fear and terror that instantly
took over our body, and the tears coming to our eyes

He took no chances that night, he tied us up to the bed,
for days he used us in anyway he chose, I was
allowed no time for the bathroom, or anything.
We became an animal.

The last memory that we remember was the year of our 13th
birthday. I can remember getting loaded off drugs
that I had gotton from my brothers, and friends,
this was the way we learn to dull the pain

He had backed me into a corner against a counter, and was
kissing and pawing us, he ripped open our blose, and
took the knife from the counter and slit our bra
opend, he proceded to cut off our shorts, and panties.
We remember the broom stick he picked up, and broke
over the counter, I remember the broom be inserted
and the room going black.

I remember waking up in my bed with my rag doll.
Several months after that we suffered a nervous
breakdown, and we tried committing suicide.
Being in the hospital we were strapped down to a cold
hard table, with something sticking out of our mouths,
and wires fasten on to our head, and the eletectrical
shock going threw our bodies. I think this helped me
to submerge even further inside ourselves.

If these experiences have taught us anything
it is that we SURVIVED.
My father thrived on the rape,
battering and emotional and physical
abuse of my body.

My father died August 10, 1994
This poem is for him

Yeah I'm Blaming you.

Yeah I'm blaming you
you prick hole,
I'm blaming you
And I'm blaming you good,
Yeah I'm telling you,
You're full of shit,
your "innocence" I dispise
All the snivel slime grime semen-webbed words dies
cried pleas
and pathetic lies,
You've used to blazen your way
through my body,
My Life
You are the rapist dad
You are the rapist, whose knife I swing back burning
You are the rot that festers the earth
your poison slop filthy crap cancer trap
polluted this planet
her psyche,
Our lives, our minds, our souls, our words
Yeah I'm telling you
it's all your fault
you are done dad
You raped me
you beat me
and beat me, and beat me
Well listen up good now, DAD
This daughter is raging,
I know
she knows, we know what you did
And Yeah I'm blaming you

Blaming you
framing you
and slaying you good
your dead




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