Daddy took me to the churchyard to kiss me. His lips took mine as they aren’t supposed to; devoured my mouth. Pulled my head back, and dipped into me. Shook me with the shame.
It wasn’t enough. In the dappled sunlight the unchaste kisses of his only daughter whet his appetite. His mouth a line. Grin, fierce.
Down the stone steps. I imagined being pushed, into the concrete. Angles in my back, against my head, my neck – already bruised by his wanton fingertips. But he took me further, and pressed me into the rough brickwork. I moaned into his mouth as he bit my kiss and choked me. As my pulse choked back.
He wanted my breasts, and took them in his palms. Tender, I twisted, fought, begged. Kissed to distract him. His fingers dug deeper, made me whimper. I turned, tensed, arms entangled as he tore me back. Fingertips returning to my flesh, searching for the tips of my nipples, for the softest spots. I growled, cowered, pleaded.
Ignored, sneered at. The pain was greater; I couldn’t scream, as schoolchildren passed behind the wall, giggling in the sunshine. And it made the pain (of desperation) deeper.
I twisted again, and he took me by the scruff of my neck, slammed my face into the wall. I could almost feel the crack of my skull, the capillaries bursting beneath my brow, the throb and pulse of Daddy’s force. He doesn’t know how close I came to tears, bitten back. Determined. His kiss was deeper. Perverse; unnatural.
I can feel it now, as my fingertips trace the yellow bruise around my eye, and the pain sears my disbelief. And in every glance that sees abuse, I pulse to know my Daddy hurts me.