Virginitiphobia

Deep red between the covers

like a book, except

no comforter in sight, and

I didn’t choose this

storyline – less adventure,

more memoir of a

psychological horror.

I don’t remember

which nightgown he tore off me,

but I remember

the body he took from me

when I was just four;

I remember the knife he

pressed up to my throat –

the scar it left is still there,

burning, choking me,

keeping me quiet like his

hand over my mouth,

Daddy saying “if you tell,

I’ll skin you alive.”

So he returns to that bed,

with his stiff body

and his heavy knife, that night

and each night after.

The will to fight or cry leaves,

the body lay still,

frozen, numb, hoping, praying,

the knife goes deeper

into your esophagus –

Finally, voided,

surrendered to the silence.