Twisted bark like teardrops creeping down from above.
I’ll always remember the sound of that old Weeping Willow sweeping its limp limbs back and forth on the porch.

Inside the blood-orange stained carpet scratches against my body.
The trailer smells of fishy cooking oil and day old beer.
The TV lightens and dims the room sporadically, but I’m not watching it.

He becomes the darkness that consumes my innocence.
His calloused hands shaping mine— I feel sick inside.

Running now; can’t look back.
I have to wash this sin off; scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing.
Unknowingly then, some things can never be cleansed.

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This poem is about my childhood trauma of being sexually abused and the lasting effects that have followed me into my adult life.