Sexually Abused Poem by Linda I. Weischedel

Each night I'd hear the end of the program
Night Gallery on the TV,
that was the cue for what was going to take place with me,
here we go, it's time to make home made Pizza by Chef Boyardee.
Hearing the creaking of slow-paced footsteps coming up the staris,
you'd hold your breathe as you entered thru the bedroom door,
I'd squeeze my eyes shut so tight because
I knew what was in store,
did yah know I have never once bought that Pizza mix as an adult,
you know why, it was what you normally chose as your lure,
your pathetically bold tactic to achieve your perversion
downstairs on our parents garage floor.

For over 30 years now I have managed to supressed these
abusive demons of violation in my head,
I've been paralyzed by the notion that I could actually
lay with another man, even if he presents a safe protected bed,
for the past 14 years now I've been painfully struggling not know which gender to love, yeah call it love,
Daddy went to his grave not knowing,
because if he knew, you most certainly would have been dead.