If I could travel back now, to that day
Your childhood pure was ripped from ‘tween your thighs
I’d take your hand, and this is what I’d say:
“It’s not your fault; there is no reason why.”
I’d hold you whilst you cried, I’d mop your tears,
I’d clean the superficial wounds he left,
The other wounds were deeper, lasting years;
The pain of childhood too soon deftly cleft.
Whilst you cry out ashamed, ‘I should have fought’
I’d whisper shame is not for you to own,
The shame lives with another, with no thought
Of how they’d grow, these wicked seeds he’d sown.
It is not you, but he, who should feel guilt;
It is not your, but his, wings that should wilt.