Authors: Ellen Hopkins
That’s right. That’s right.
His voice rocked in rhythm
with his body.
Oh yes, my Kaeleigh
loves me. My little flower…
Kaeleigh Didn’t Know
What any of it meant
either.
But we both knew
somehow it was
important,
because when Daddy
finished, he burrowed
his face
into Kaeleigh’s hair
and wept. Confused at
his tears,
and at the sticky stuff icing
her hands, still Kaeleigh
pleaded,
“Don’t cry, Daddy.
What’s the matter? Didn’t
I love
you good enough?”
That Brought Him Out of His Trance
Like he suddenly realized just what
he’d done. He scrambled for cover.
Yes, you loved me good enough.
So very good! But it’s our secret, okay?
Because if anyone knew how much
you love me, they’d be jealous.
Now Kaeleigh was really confused.
“Can I tell Mama our secret?”
No! Especially not Mama. She’d get
mad because she doesn’t love me
like you. She might even go away.
You don’t want that, do you?
She thought it over. Again and again.
But she finally agreed, “I won’t tell.”
Daddy pulled her against him. Good.
That’s very good. It’s okay to have
secrets between Daddy and his girl.
Just remember. No one likes a tattletale.
Especially not Daddy.
She Never Tattled
Didn’t want Daddy to get mad.
Didn’t want her mama to go
away, though she’d already
gone in spirit, if not yet
physically.
Hard to understand.
Harder yet to believe.
Especially when your own
need is so great. The simple
need
to absorb your mother’s love.
Kaeleigh always needed
that more than I. No, I
crave
more our father’s affection.
But can anyone really love him
good enough to fill a well of
want
so deep it must extend all
the way to his core, the very
“who” of who he is? And one
bigger question remains, begging
an answer: Just
who (or what?)
drilled that well in the first place?
This Morning I Wake
Mired in confusion, an odd
sort of throb in my torso.
Hunger. The specter of my genie,
physically
haunting me. Stalking me.
Beneath my silk
pajama top, my empty
belly lies, flatter than ever. I
need
that binge, and something
more. Something to make me
feel necessary. Alive. This thing I
crave
(no, can’t) is new. Forbidden.
(No. Don’t.) What’s wrong
with me? I can’t believe I
want
this. Why me? Why now?
Why at all? My hand floats
across my curvelessness,
moves lower, to the need.
Who (or what?)
can I make believe is loving me?
Am I Sick?
My skin is hot. Fevered. Demanding
to be soothed. Touched. Satisfied.
Have I gone crazy? I have never, ever
done such a thing. Never unlocked
this private room inside of me. Never
ever wanted to take a look inside.
Am I possessed? Entered by a demon,
chained and padlocked, inside of myself?
I feel possessed, taken by some evil,
sick desire. Desire I can’t control.
What is wrong with me? I don’t want
this. Oh God. It can’t feel good.
But it does.
But it does.
It does.
It does.
Does.
Does.
Totally Humiliated
I go into the bathroom.
I’d like to take a hot bath,
but no time now. I’ll have
to settle for a shower.
The steamy cascade
streams over my body.
Sandalwood soap
lifts in a fragranced
fog, cleanses and
perfumes skin and air.
Nasty stickers of hair
defile me, the goddess
within. I reach for my
razor, triple bladed
and critically sharp.
I’ve shaved my legs for
years, know to be careful,
yet suddenly I don’t
give a fuck and push
hard. The consequences
are immediate. Blood
streams from the long,
wide slice I’ve opened.
It vanishes down the drain,
and I can’t help but smile.
Yeah, It Stings
But at least I feel something.
Something besides hungry.
Something besides afraid.
Weird. I always thought
cutters were sick. Sicker
than me, even. But with
a single swipe I understand
why they do it. Why they like
it, even though they hate it.
I let the water run over the cut,
ratchet it hotter, watch the blood
slow, stutter, almost halt.
I like the way the exposed flesh
looks, all pinkish white. It looks
new, although I know that isn’t right.
It’s the same age as my skin,
my bones. Me. It’s been there
with me since the beginning.
Been there with me through
thick. Thin. Daddy. Suddenly
I don’t like how it looks at all.
Ugly Flesh
Still exposed, I dress in loose
drawstring pants, a soft, baggy
blouse. Definitely not haute couture.
In fact, I look like a pregnant hippie.
To complete the look, I make two long
braids with my grown-out bangs,
pull them together in back. All I need
now is some daisies to weave in.
Several minutes behind my usual
schedule, guess I’d better skip
breakfast. Somehow I’ve lost
my appetite anyway.
Not gonna go double digits like this,
but I’ve got plenty of time to work on it.
And the baggy pants make me
look larger than the size seven
I keep trying to outgrow.
Backpack Stuffed
With homework and books, I maneuver
the hallway as quietly as possible.
Right hand on the latch, I’m almost out
into the cold, cold morning when
the sledgehammer falls:
Where do you think you’re going,
dressed like some lunatic street person?
Just the tone of Daddy’s voice makes
my entire body quake. I don’t dare turn
around, don’t dare look into his eyes.
In them, I know I’ll see the
real
lunatic.
I find an excuse. “Uh, we…we have
a play rehearsal this morning. This will
help me get into my role, that’s all.”
He doesn’t buy a word of it.
Today is Wednesday. You have drama
Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.
Has he actually memorized my class schedule?
Does he really keep an eye on such things?
I mean, yes, he’s a control freak and all….
I finally face him, crazy man in the eyes and all.
He’s there, okay, daring me not to admit
the lie. I know better. “Yes, that’s right,
but I’m already running late. I don’t
have time to change now.”
The lunatic levels me.
No daughter of mine goes out in public
like that. Go change. I’ll drive you.
I Back Up the Hallway
Eyes firmly planted on Daddy,
who follows. Why does it have
to be just the two of us here?
I want my sister. I want my mom.
Surely he won’t trail me into
my room. Won’t watch me undress.
Won’t stop me from transforming
from hippie to soc. Right? Right?
Please tell me I’m right!
I back into my room, start to close
the door, hoping he won’t push
inside. “I’ll hurry, okay, Daddy?”
I stare at him, try to measure
him, and the weirdest thought
flashes inside my head: He must
have been incredibly good-looking
once, before life crashed around
him. Took him down. He pauses.
Should I help you choose
what to wear?
His voice
is soft as baby skin.
This can go a couple of ways.
Say no and face his anger?
Say yes and face…what, exactly?
Instinct tells me to accept his offer.
“Uh. Sure.” But I start to shake
as he steps through the doorway,
moves swiftly across the floor to my
closet, pokes inside, swaying back
and forth like an Indian cobra charmer.
This,
he says,
has always
been one of my favorites. You
look like your mother in it.
He Caresses
A pink angora sweater, pets
it softly, as if it were the bunny
the fur was stripped from.
He hands it to me, along
with a slim pair of burgundy
jeans. Daddy has good taste.
I take his offerings, start toward
the bathroom, but he stops
me with the force of his eyes.
I know what he wants. Sudden
nausea rocks me, but just as I think
for sure I’ll vomit right here,
the telephone rings, yanking
Daddy from his trance.
His head turns toward the door.