WARNING: NOT for the squeamish. (So if you read it, you have only yourself to thank or blame.)

For those who don’t know me well enough yet, this happened to me when I was a kid. Feel free to comment, ask questions, or engage me through email if you prefer to speak privately (ask and ye shall receive my address). I’m open about this (and my mental disorders) because I want survivors to shed their unearned shame and get the help they need to sweep the monster from under the bed and LIVE their lives not as victims, but as true survivors. Peace, Amy

Too Close, No Comfort

She feels the proximity of the monster
Hears his footsteps
Smells his acrid third-martini breath

She should call out, scream
But it’s useless, no one comes to
help the child until afterwards

It’s over. She wet the bed again
but he never noticed, too busy with
her small, slack-jawed mouth

Will she ever tell the secret everyone knows,
or will she block it all out to preserve
what little sense of self remains?

Little girls have a capacity, as do little boys
to save retribution for adulthood,
when they are able to handle the history

Tears witnessed by a therapist,
perhaps meds to ease the trauma as it is relived
again and again, until the haunting stops

My dad never did the perp walk
Mom never admitted she knew
but my sweet revenge was forgiveness:

After all, he was the sick one.

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For Three Word Wednesday: Immobile, Proximity, Retribution