Grandpa, can you not see my face,

can you not see that I am only eight?


I cry not to be left with you,

but mommy doesn’t know what you’re about to do.


She is gone now

and I know what comes next,


you’ll lead me down the hall,

by holding my hand.


All of my clothes fall to the floor,

as you turn to close and lock the door.


I cover my face

so I don’t have to see

all of the things you are doing to me.


It’s over now and I go to my room.

I sit there wondering what to do.


I decided then never to tell,

that this little girl

was living in hell.


~Written by: Tonya Partain

I was only a teenager when I wrote this. I remember it poured out of me like rain. It was the first time that I wrote a poem all the way through with no revisions. It just came out with a tug of my heart, and one stroke of my pen.

~Photographer unknown


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