Frrp, Frrp, Frrp…
Frrp, frrp, frrp, frrp…
His slippers drag in the hall
Pulls the blanket over her head
It’s Daddy’s nighttime call
She has a lot of sore throats
and trouble swallowing pills
Doctor never questions
rashes that sting like quills
And Daddy took her to the hill
to watch the stars at night
And Daddy brought her home so late
She can’t remember things right
Frrp, frrp, frrp, frrp…
The sound will haunt her dreams
Even though he’s dead and gone
He still looms large, it seems
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
If you’re new here, I hope you will take this recollection of being sexually molested for what it is: Dark truth, frank as blood from a tapped vein. I was a victim; eventually, with work, I became a survivor. This is for anyone who gets a flutter reading this poem. Think about starting therapy. There could be something worth harvesting… and throwing away.
For ABC Wednesday, the letter “F.” Check out the link and find some amazing poets! Amy
FATHER COMPLEX (Complex Father)
It’s tricky, sticky wicked
That piñata over her head
Follows her night and day and
especially late at night
Waking sweatshivering but
carrying HIS shame, unfair…
Quivering over vague memories or
screaming at every fire alarm,
My house is burning down
(as her young kids cower)
Piñata full of poisoned treats
Candied little deaths
One for every time it happened
It’s chockfreakinfull
Been that way for many
yeasty years, its yaw
occasionally pin-pricked
(precision meets sweaty palms)
but never baseball batted
The conundrum:
If she whacks it, will candy
attack her with what it is?
Will she binge on the bittersweets
and purge up the truth?
Or will the piñata float
over her like a raincloud
Rancid, restless, ever
present
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, the letter being F. Also in the margins at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United.
For all women who have not gotten to the truth of having been molested as a young child: this type of horror is usually perpetrated by a family member or close friend. For me, it was my dad, so I used him. Hell, he used me enough, why not?
If alarms alarm you to the point of screaming, if the surprise of a lover’s gentle touch makes you jump out of the bed… Think about seeing a therapist, NOT a psychiatrist, cause baby, this chigger can’t be chased away by chugging drugs.
A comprehensive article on the signs pointing to both remembering and finding the way to recovery may be read HERE.
You’ll go through hell in therapy, maybe need a temporary anti-anxiety med, but you just might be rewarded with a life worth living, and kids who are not scared of you, nor embarrassed by your public explosions. Call Samaritan Counseling, they have a sliding scale. And your issue may be something totally different, even a more recent event that still sticks to your muscle sheath memory like Elmer’s Glue.
I have a life thanks to therapy. It does work, if you’re ready to dig deep. Blessings to all, and may this never be visited on ar young person you know… Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 