Tell me why
I can feel your fingers on my skin,
when sometimes it seems like
they were never there? 

Tell me why,
when my husband touches me, 
I am terrified
it’s you behind me
come to finish
what you started?

I loved you,
trusted you, 
and you swallowed that
like it was candy,
sweet on your tongue
and good for the soul. 

And then you tainted it,
you bastard,
and because I am naive,
I let you. 

Because I was a 
I let you. 

And then I forgot,
because forgetting
was better than
looking at myself in the mirror—
seeing damaged goods
and violated innocence. 

I forgot because 
my mind 
could not understand 
why your hands
were on my body
in places 
they did not belong. 

One day, 
I will tell you
exactly what you did
because it seems
that you, too, 
have forgotten.
But I remember now. 
And I am angry. 

I will raze your fields,
sound the battle cry,
and rip out your heart
with my teeth. 
But first, the world will know,
that you,
Mr. Hyde,
are a child molester
and a pedophile. 

And then the world will know
that I 
am a survivor.