Diary Entry #2

"Will you ever have enough?" — "No."

I have always knew the answer to that, anyway.

In the ripe age of 12, callouses on his palms, rough with his tender, hellish caressing. It was supposed to be protective, gentle, sterile, impersonal, non-intimate; "Your skin is so soft, and you're so cute too... C'mon, just for few minutes, this was your fault, you were tempting me," He said.

I was 8, all I asked was for him to play a simple childish game of hide and seek with me.

I was 8 when he hooked a gross, fattened finger down the hem of the fabric of my undergarments.

I was 8 when he tugged on the front of my shirt and peered down at the parts I had grown to detest.

I was 8 ears old, I was a child, a kid; I was no nymphet, no lolita, no grue, I was a child, a little girl.

I was no temptress, I was a kid, I was a little girl playing in her mother's makeup and dress up of a lady, I was a little girl whose panties had just been clothing; no attachment, pure neutrality.

But underneath that sickenly appalling sun, with me trapped underneath your arms, to you, I was a woman, a piece of meat, a warm body, a blushing virgin, nothing else

I was no child to you, I was no little sister to you, I was a play thing to you, I was a damozel, a charnue laced with eglantine, your sex pot.

Under your arms, I lost any sense of beauty I had. No longer was I an innocent kid--Innocent to the horrors of man--I was a violated woman.

I had always wanted to be a lady, to be a bathing beauty, but now, all left is the marks of your hands, the ichor that stained my clothes, and the everlasting sensation—I prayed and cried to god to remove—of your touch.

Forever, I am marked by you and your grossly touch.