Of My Own Doing
You opened a hunger in me for things I wasn't ready for.
And, like the innocent I was, I went back for more.
I remember the touch, and sensations that hadn't names.
My body craved more of the touching. My heart wanted love.
The love you said you felt for me.
But the only way I could get it was to give into the touch.
I went back whenever I could, at first, starved for you.
For what you promised me. For what I didn't understand.
What we did, you said, was normal.
What we did, you said, was a gift.
(I couldn't tell anyone!)
What we did, you said, was for grownups.
(I was a little boy!)
What we did, you said, was for special people.
(I felt dirty because of you!)
The greatest burden you gave the child who loved you,
More than the lust he shouldn't have had,
More than the confusion of what you said,
More than the sense of dirty shame,
Was the sense of what he did was his own damn fault.
(It was NEVER my fault!)
I felt like it was my fault because I went back.
I liked what we did.
I liked being grown up.
I liked the things you said.
And I knew what we did was wrong, but I couldn't give up
You gave me what I wanted, and you killed me with it.