Molested

Hazy, smudged negatives; A flash-bulb memory. I attempt to focus, The image is blurred: On my bed on your stomach; Where are your clothes? Then I wipe my finger clean, Not knowing why I feel dirty inside. I remember that smell. In the back of my family van; Where are our moms? You pin me and make demands. My brow creases, too young to know this game. I escaped... unharmed? You call me into your bedroom. Why are your lights off, Brother? You show me where to put my mouth, Then hold me tight as I struggle to get away. Mom, why didn't you come when I screamed? A playhouse, straight from a horror movie. Why this feeling of shame? I watched you take complete control, Then... dark static. I'm terrified of that clip of my life that's been lost. My childhood; a collage of dulling watercolors. What's hidden beneath the overlapping edges? I'm not sure if this art's the reason or the excuse For who I've become. It hangs on the back wall of my mind. Written February 9th, 2000 © on Oct 14 2001 09:40 AM PST, Heather Larsen   11 • 18 • 1