I remember....
his hands.
They were calloused,
felt like sandpaper against my skin
as he whispered softly
about the changes of puberty
from the book I was reading.
Pointed out the exact spots
that would later morph with age.
His gentle touch as he murmured
and called me
"his Lolita",
only later did I come to understand
he was my Humbert Humbert.
Soft lips of a chef
tracing kisses on my neck
as he whispered
"so much sweeter than your mother."
And my little smiles
because in those days
he was the only one who loved me.
The feel of a strong man's arms
around a childs waist
as I cried about not seeing father,
about being kidnapped by mother.
About seeing the man downstairs get stabbed.
Perverse adoration
between a small girl and a man
and the silent denials
that he was doing anything bad.
The whispers I later screamed
I never told him...
...begging him to take me with him when he left...
...begging to be kept by someone who loved me.
Someone who cared.
A story I've never had the nerve to tell,
A secret I've never had the courage
to admit.
The things he did to me,
And I never hated it.
And to this day,
I don't know if I should love him,
hate him,
or hate myself
for even questioning it....