Fairy Tales.

Sitting listening to Enid Blyton, listening to words,
Able to imagine a world away from my own,
Able to separate my being, a emotion beyond my years.
As his hand slipped lower, resting on my crotch,
The words, *its warmer there* filling my ears,
For some reason fear filling my soul.

I allowed the hand closer to my body,
I allowed warmth to fill his soul,
Selfish and wrong of me to say No,
He was an adult after all, he knew right from wrong,

From a young age I learn to breathe, Learnt to ignore,
I learned fast that the hand near that area,
Was one to allow and ignore, I was not allowed to protest,
that hand held my tomorrow, It led no further,
Whilst I sat in that bed, against his chest,
Feeling his smokey breath, Hearing the pages read,

I focused, I believed No wrong,
I had no trust, It was all I knew,
All I understood.
Was what went forward was my fault,
What went forward I wanted,
What went forward I deserved
I, as a 6 yr old child, could and would,
Accept and take this, No questions asked…