Innocence 1

[Mitch]

To some an image of social par is a pith, because their hearts are scared with a cyst of emotional margins kept from imposed exchanges of thoughtless sex. Like this women I once called my friend, she kept my attention with stories of awful forces, god was bored and chalked a plot so course it rubbed the noggin wrong when tossed around, weather or not thought aloud, one one look from you could spot the good in you wrestling with some demon of seasoned subterfuge. She told me a story through subtle clues, but once suddenly when smoking bongs in a toasty calm of base head basement she'd come unloose, tongue spilled out like numbed with rum;
Muffled tippy-toes slipping through the hallway of afternight, the dusk of a mute world, dissipates in a mirage of screams, grunts and pleads, visions trickling through the keyhole to mommy's room, behind mommy's door, a whore, a slob who rocks her cold, lying still in tear softened skin under hard light of whats become of her hearts vice. She feared her father , the father who bore her, molded her into his daughter, the father who watched her wither in a closet, a plant with no sunlight or faucet to grow the roots loose under sickly soil, sifting through the doors and the walls in silence, she hears the fears of mother, shares the pain and brain is shamed, soon alone, as, mother now fathers clone,
left to her own assessment of herself.. but that wouldn't do for daddy, she asked me, what would you do if your father took you, changed you, scolded you for watching what was once just a distant image of pain taking place to make him content, now a trap, a bad dream, a scream in the back of your throat clogged with your sweater, pushed into your chest as father rampages, enthralls you in sodomy, calls you his lesser, crushed and left to rot? She followed the line, that father left around the house to signal threats to secrecy with jingling tin cans, feeding her, clothing her, cleaning her, but knots of internal plots knocked her off and she would hate, herself as father hates, himself as daughters pain erased with hollow bottles with which he still couldn't contemplate clearly, herself worthless. At home a ghost, watching mom go overboard with drugs from under floor boards, eyes rolling backwards, abused. Confused and frustrated, she takes her mothers pain out with her wrists in slits and scrapes. Her father wasn't finished with the first time, but she grew grotesque and mocked his taint, her blood plucked from the protection of purity, surely cast into the flames of hell, told to never tell, she never asked. she was the outcast, peers jeered and attacked her masks, High school she played the victim, and if a bully pushed she couldn't hit them, how could they possibly know of the problems she's lived with, always disinterested with school, education could wait until her head was together, but all she really wanted was to be dead, for the better she kept up in the hopes that soon it would all be over, she tried smoking to cloak her thoughts disorder, sort of sorted she ran with a pack of street rats with crack rock to rock rock streets with street smarts, mending her broken heart with a sworn sword and buckle, the Gs were the only people who wouldn't cuss her hiding from her pitiful past, so she dove in thick with a gang of kids that kicked crack by the kilo to primo customers, accepted her expected passing around like when her fathers friends had come over.