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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.


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.


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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