She did not rape me when I was nine years old.
And when I was seven, she did not scream with whiskey on her breath.
And when I was six, she did not grab my face with those bruising, twiney fingers
And yet, she is the creator of my shakes
of the fragility behind my eyes and just under my ribs that plagues me
She, the chameleon of all deceased things,
has morphed
and has placed her face
cookie-cut
into my memories
Those who had truly committed the crimes
have been washed away
by the newfound poison that hath been laced on the tongue of such a reptile
and only She,
the creature with the blizzards in her eyes,
with death creeping along her body
and the fires of hell burning at her head
can be seen
Within the events
that have caused my death.
