by C. Christine Fair

To you, I was always “Bob’s bastard,”
A reminder that someone touched her before you.

My body remembers your grease-stained, gnarled fists
smashing my pink flesh to bone.

My body remembers your steel-toed shoes
ploughing into my belly and back.
Sometimes mom begged you to stop.
Sometimes she sobbed, immobile.
Sometimes she looked away.

Though you’ve been dead for years,
You live here now.

Imprisoned in the body of the girl you despised.

This was originally published in Furious Gazelle on 6 April.

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