He Confessed, and I Remembered - Part 2

Seven years old, a child in disguise, Learning to smile while silence cries. He thought the truth would drown in fear, But every confession still echoes here. Sexual Abuse in the First Degree, That was the theft of the child in me. Sodomy in the Second, I still can’t see How someone called Father could break what’s free. Rape in the Second, Rape in the Third, Each one a wound that stole my word. Sodomy in the Third, the echo repeats, But his slurred confessions became my receipts. Use of a Minor in a Performance— one count, But the damage can’t be measured in any amount. A handful of pills, a seven-hour wall, And he finally admitted to it all. I never had to stand in that room, The officer’s notes became my truth. No cross to bear, no jury’s stare— Just me, rebuilding from the proof. Now I raise my daughter in softer light, Teaching her “safe” and “love” and “right.” Still learning that trust won’t bite my hand, Still healing in ways few understand. I mother with caution, but courage too, Because surviving him means I grew. I am not his silence, nor his sin— I’m the proof that the broken can still begin. So read the charges, line by line, They’re not just his crimes—they once were mine. But today they’re ashes, fading slow, From a girl who survived what she shouldn’t have known.