our little secret

C'mon. Scooch over,
make room for yer ol'
uncle here. Fork o'er
some o'the blankets, now--
eh? Why're you all the way
over there? Don'worry, now,
yer safe with me!

You live by a train track
but you have heard no pounding
like the beating of your heart
against a flimsy rib cage. You
used to think of yelling, or trying
to run away--climbing out of the bed,
growing wings and clawing a way out of
this head, but it isn't possible.
Trust me. It isn't possible.
We need to stop hoping.

The first time
he says, "It's a game,
but it's our little secret."
With rough, calloused fingers;
he's still mumbling, "Just don't
tell mommy or daddy..."

The next day
you throw up in the sink
and your mother thinks you've
got a stomach bug. You don't have
the will to speak. She sends you back
to your room, where you refuse
to climb into bed.

It's a day later
when you realize
that holidays are
to become horror stories.
Repeatedly. Into your bed,
either drunk or ruthless.
Sometimes both. The pain
doesn't matter. The blood
forgotten. He makes the haphazardly
attempts to clean up remnants of the mess,
but your parents never notice anyways. If
there's blood? Bloody nose. You get them
all the time. If there's a bruise? Kids.
Playing in the backyard. What did I tell
you about being safe? If they notice
you smell like bourbon or an older
man's cologne, they'll pass it
off as you bonding with your
uncle. How sweet. And,
when they give you
a bath, if they
see the bruising
on your inner
thighs, they
say with shaky
voices, "What did
you do this time?"

And maybe they'll
just say that the
older boy down the street
kicked you while wearing his cleats.
They don't want to believe.

You get your first sip of alcohol
at six. While your parents are out doing
last-minute shopping, he forces you to drink.
Red wine pours down the back of your throat, and
you think of it as the grapefruit that your mother
pushed your way earlier, and said, "Eat up."
It makes you woozy, and he gains better
control of you. He says you took a
nap, with a smile, peace of cake,
this child. Such an angel.
They look proud.

As you get older,
red wine resembles the
blood that you can see
behind your eyes. Holidays
haunt you, even past your uncle's
death. Pneumonia. In a way, you feel guilty
for sitting at your bed every night
and praying for it to happen.

In a way, you feel angry
with whatever god, whatever
higher power who would let
this happen. Where was help
when you needed it?

He took
your body
away from you.

That's the worst
thing a person could do.

Scooch o'er.
Share the blankets.
It's very hot. I think
you would be much better
without those. Try this.
And then.
And then.
Unintelligible.