Most adolescents resist

parental coddling or direction.

Part of growing up

is getting angry

   disappointed

   and disgusted with parents.

All my friends did it.

I'd complain too

   when Mom was overcautious

   or grouchy.

I hardly said a word about you.

I seethed in quiet.

I think you may have left me alone

for awhile during my adolescence

but it didn't change my attitude.

I hated you.

Survival

Eyes can be blank.

They can refuse to see

whatever body or person

is thrust before them.

If you squeeze your eyes tight

and hold them shut

until they hurt

and think to yourself

   this is not happening

   I'll pretend I'm not here

   I won't think about it

over and over and over

you can forget

in order to survive.

Hate

Hate

Hate

Hate

Hate

Hate

Hate

Hate

Hate

Hate

Hate

Hate

Why me?

Other Dads

My friends had nice dads --

men who talked to us

from their easy chairs

where they read the paper

when we came to visit.

My girlfriends would wave goodbye

or give their dads a kiss

as they left for the show

or to go skating.

I never understood it.

And I seldom asked girlfriends over

when you were home.

I wasn't sure I dared.

Twelve

One terrible night

you asked too much.

I was twelve --

far too small and young

to resist.

My tears burned my eyes

and my throat filled with lead

which I swallowed

until I turned into a statue --

a metal sculpture.

I would never be warm again.

Nightmares

I lived in the shadow of dreams,

frightening nightmares

that would cause me to awaken,

silent screams tearing through my mind.

I pleaded with the darkness

to take away my fears.

But the dreams returned

   often unexpectedly

   sometimes vague

   sometimes repetitious.

I could not run away.

Legacy

I began to realize

I could hurt my children.

I might teach them

   to abuse

   to use

   to take advantage

of others, of sexuality.

Or I might keep them

stained

   in some subtle way

by my past.

That was when I knew

I must discover

   what was wrong with me.

I must try to change.

I must go for help.

I'm afraid of dying

more afraid than many

   because I know it's real.

It's me who dies --

   I can't deny it

   as others do.

I've seen death

   in his menacing eyes

   a too-sharp grabbing of my arm

   a blow to my young cheek

and in a vivid sense of being marked

   Unwanted.

I've known the brink

   of the power of death

   over which I had no control.

I struggle now

   against an abiding deep force

that would destroy

   not only my body

   but my inner soul --

destroy my concept of my Self

   my will to survive

   my joy of life.

Every day I fight to live.

You and I

You

Are

A

Selfish

Terrifying

Cruel

Person

   and

   i

   can't

   find

   anyplace

   to

   hide.

Therapist

Help me, I pleaded --

never saying the words

but crying out in frightened eyes

   legs clasped tight together

   or drawn up to my chest

   arms stiff

   body hunched.

You were skilled enough

to kow the signs

and kind enough to wait

with gentle encouragement

until I could trust you

   and tell.

Telling you,

was the beginning of my life.

You heard my plea

and understood.

Shame

I don't like to remember

because, like everyone else,

I'm ashamed to know.

Each memory

lowers my head

   nearly to my chest

in shame.

I feel worthless, ugly.

I beg of myself

reasons why I didn't resist.

Even when I know that I was helpless

   and unable to stop

   the gradual debasement of my soul

I long to believe I didn't succumb.

to face the truth

   again

   and again.