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I know why I hate semen.
Because when I was no older than 9,
he watched our cousin fuck me
and then come inside of me.
I walked around after,
having no idea
what the slimy feeling was
between my legs.
Because he held my head to his dick,
telling me what to do
as he fucked my mouth,
until he came in the back of my throat.
I spit in the garbage can,
wanting to vomit but feeling too empty
to muster the force.
Because of all the times he bent me over
- in the coal house
- in the storage crib my father cut trees to build
- in the chicken coop
- in the outhouse
then pulled out of me
to spill himself on gray wood.
Because when I was 13 and on the phone with a friend,
he pulled my pants down as I sat in a chair,
knowing I wouldn’t let on.
He fucked me while I listened to the childish ramblings of
my friend.
He came on my belly, stood up, grabbed a towel, and wiped
himself off of me --
The phone in my hand the entire time,
me barely able to speak.
Because two days before Christmas, when I was 15,
he bent me over the arm of a chair
while I stared at the lights on the tree.
The condom he was wearing broke.
I skipped my period and spent the next two months
trying to decide how I’d kill myself if I was pregnant.
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