Your Story

You told me one night when we were in bed. We’d been a couple years already and you’d never said.

I’d told you about my past, what I endured. You asked questions and I answered.

It wasn’t until years later that you told me your story. Sometimes it takes a lifetime to tell these tales. If ever.

He was your mom’s husband. A philandering abuser. A womanizer and… He didn’t just abuse women. You were little, maybe ten? Maybe?

Using the tools a monster uses against a child, he got you to your knees. He took what he wanted. I could see the shame you still carried in the crinkles around your eyes.

Shame over something that was not your fault. That no child should endure.

You said, when he was done he gave you a dollar. A dollar.

My heart bled for you. You said you were fine. It didn’t bother you. You didn’t feel anything about it. It was nothing.

But I saw it in your eyes. It wasn’t nothing. Of course it wasn’t nothing.

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