What is my truth?
There he is, preparing the bed like how my father did.
Fluffing the pillows, with the feathers slipping out,
I fidgeting with fear in the other room.
He stands there imagining what is about to happen,
what he is going to do.
But not caring, knowing how I feel, how I think.
As he called my name, he layed.
I, following his voice entered my room but his dome.
Him seeing my naked soul, it takes a toll.
I try to look into his eyes, the eyes that are evil,
the eyes you can not easily see.
Then, he touches me.
But not the touch you want or need, no.
But that touch does not define me.
It violates me, angers me, contracts what I could or should say.
But that touch still does not define me.
I still remember that bed, it was black and red. Everynight it’s like a Rollercoaster that never ends, a horror house, a gas chamber.
What is my truth you say? Well I know, does he though.
Does he know what he has done, what he and I become.
It is he that helped me find my truth.
Now it is my turn, stand up and salute.