I am eight
In a warm room of sun shiny windows,
Crawling high on a tower of foam blocks,
I touch the ceiling, sitting down.
He climbs up and sits close to me,
Bumping his head on the ceiling.
he touches me.
It feels good.
It was bad
And I knew it,
but I could not speak.
In those long moments
Something was stolen from me.
I learned, in time,
That he stole my voice, my vision and my power.
A dark room filled with books and shadows.
A child upstairs.
Noise from a tv is my company.
I feel oddly safe in his home their home.
The door opens
he surprises me and
Locks the door
I get between him and that blessed door.
We are a sandwich.
My voice is loud, my knee is louder.
Loud enough that I can open the door.
My feet are the wind
I find home,
I take back my voice
But it is too soft
No one really hears.
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