c.m faust

You are four years old.
Mother enters the room, her presence a silent storm.
Carrying an unquenched thirst, you throw yourself into her arms.
With all her strength she pushes you away.

“DON’T…touch me.”

Without a sound, you tiptoe to lie beside her, just out of reach.
If you make a mistake she’ll push you away again.
This much you know.
You’ve mustered up some courage today,
undoubtedly out of desperation.
Your tiny finger reaches out,
carefully brushing softly against her thigh.
Mother sighs, exasperated.
You flinch –
wholly expecting her physical rejection,
but she leaves the room instead.
You sink into the carpet in defeat.
Nodding off, you sing yourself a lullaby of the one thing you know:

“I am a bad girl. I was a bad girl.”

A seed is planted in your heart that day,
something that soon blossoms into an all-consuming curse;
A generational spell that lures all the bad men –

and thirty years will pass before you find the love you seek –

You just don’t know it yet.