Good Little Girl Poem by sharon wischkaemper
Good Little Girl
The first time I recall him putting his hands on me I was three.
Me, with my legs split wide open like the Serengeti.
He, like an animal tearing at my flesh
I was not ready
for the shame that came when I realized
I was not a good little girl for keeping his secrets for him.
I was thirteen the first time I tried to cut him out of me.
I was much older before I realized he wasn't worth dying for.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/2/2024 7:39:26 PM # 1.0.0.1119
