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You Still Remembered Him
You needed a hug
but you would never
say it. How do you say
that he dragged you
again? Down the hallway
pass your mother
sleeping after her
graveyard shift.
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But you needed a hug,
not sex. Not
more of your flesh
against his flesh
in cars, on the beach,
his room, your room
and hotels rooms. You
looked for places, any
place to have sex.
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But you needed a hug,
arms to hold you and
affirming whispers
of words carrying you
away from your stepfather’s
abuse, your mother’s closed
eyes and your pain. That night
your mother’s words were
laced with anger because
the vomit told her that
you were pregnant, but
your mother had no worries. You
did not desire her life or a baby.

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