Updated: Jan 30, 2021
I won't explain to you what happens in the heads and hearts of little girls when the same men laying hands on her during the service have their hands up her skirt after the sermon. The same men that told us how to find the path to righteousness were trying to lead us to bed. Who is that god? Your god that you love so much. You crammed him down my throat like every cock that didn't ask permission. You loved him so much that you forgot about the little girls. If there is a special place in hell for people like me then I'll be sure to shake the hands of the pastors on their way in.
I won't explain to you what happens in the heads and hearts of little girls when the doctor’s fingernails scrape down her inner thigh. Fully nude from the waist down.
I was four. She was a woman, and you were there and let it happen.
But I learned long before that day that no one but little girls can understand what it's like to be a little girl. Wear a shirt over your swim suit. But not so tight that adult hands can‘t get between the fabric and the flesh.
And if this bothers you go look in the mirror and ask yourself why. Don't tell me that god was there with me. The only thing I know of god is a church nursery room with clouds painted on the ceiling and how to make myself disappear inside my own mind. I won't explain it to you. Because I can't. You never asked anyway. And even now you're only thinking about how your god is different. How your husband is different. How your doctors different. How your church is different.
Well it wasn't different for me. Little girls don't care about different anyways and it's too late to save them all.
All I can do is look myself in the mirror and tell that little girl inside me that she's not wrong. Not broken. Used. Consumed. Evil. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't her white stockings or church socks. I won't explain to you that the stories of god you're vomiting onto me condemn me and over the half people you know to hell.
Some stains not even my baptism will wash away.