Today is my father’s birthday, but I got celebrated instead, cause the carousel bought for me arrived.
Happy birthday to him, and this image is his crime to my 10 year old body. He kept his hands clean always, hated blood, was a pussy. He also was pro-life, telling me as a teen, “how could someone claim to be Christian and believe in abortion?” He views it as murder yes, well, where was his care for murder when I first fell pregnant? When he shamed me, beat me, raped me, sold me for porn. And where was his care for life when he drove us to the end of the world that day? He left, remember, no dirty hands, he cannot handle blood, whereas I never had a choice. I was covered in it, I was brutally raped and tortured, my child was taken out dead. I was covered in blood, all my own, dying out under the light. Where was his care for life then? When I was handed my son on blue latex gloves, and ate him while half alive. That is one face, one death, what about all the rest? Did life have value to this Christian man when he gave me to them, to fight and to kill, to watch them die out, to eat. Those are the other faces, down into the belly swallowed to hide the evidence. He didn’t have to be there, he reaped the benefits only, and that night he drove me home silent in my death, and there was one less person in that car on the way back. And did he cry or care? Was I allowed to? He shut me up and fucked me, again and again and again. Lucky him, the child body is so resilient, I was able to be a product once more, I bounced back from pregnancy quickly, and the memory was swallowed as well. I don’t miss him at all truly, and he’ll see me again someday, I promised him that.
