By Ashwathi Mohan
Behind those giant wooden doors
Lay his tiny, twisted mind
His hands grabbed all of me
A monster, not so kind.
I was four and a half
and he must have neared forty.
The rooms echoed through its peeling paint
They were colored with my fears
I wish I could tell he was no saint
but my father’s rage stained the walls,
I walked in my home with a quiet dread
with growing emptiness through the halls.
Each visit, I watched him crawl on my skin
A man made not of flesh & bones
but unforgivable sins.
I wish my mother never allowed her lovers in.
The sofas kept my secrets tight
I hid my wounds from the morning light
I have served my tears to the dining table
The ceiling watched the evil
bearing witness to my unanswered prayers.
Now grown, I dwell in a distant town,
tenderly arranging each pale scar
Years have passed, seasons changed—
I’ve built a home of my own,
where guests are not welcome.