my father would come to me
like rain to the ground,
pounding.
he'd slip under the covers and bring heat
while staining every sheet of my bed.
i was always his little sexed up treat.
purity was taken during these night hours,
before i was corrupt enough to know it's value.
it hurt then.

but afterwards i would lie
safe in his arms,
and there was comfort in the fact that
nothing would scratch my shameful face
as much as his unshaven stubble.
nothing would burn my flesh
as much as the rashes and blisters.
nothing would ever hurt
as much as what he had done.
even when she came later
and tried to imitate (rape)
of innocence,
she never made it hurt as much.

the thing we fear the most has already happened to us.