It all begins with a back rub,
The grooming of the child,
The victim, carefully prepared,
With a conspiratorial smile,
Just our secret, just you and I.
The perp is always lonely.
Something a pal like you can fix,
Even though you are five years old
And the parent is past thirty.
The truth is they are turned on by children. .
They enjoy the power they have over a child.
It isn’t love, like they say, but hate and domination.
You made me do it, they always say.
You are the only one who understands me.
This is our little secret,
But there is no partnership, no understanding,
Until the next time, and there always is a next time.
The perps usually die decades before their victims do
Young men and women who panic when someone gets close,
Who close their eyes and can’t push away the flashbacks
When they try to make love, or stay drunk for twenty years
In order to have a boyfriend or girlfriend.
“You are so pretty. You made me do it,” but the perp is lying
And the child feels so ugly and soiled that the mirror starts lying.
The grown-up child, no matter how attractive thinks any compliment
Is flattery from someone that wants a terrible price.
Intimacy is a battleground of a scene that ended thirty years ago,
While the partner is left puzzled or worse, hurt.
How many lonely people never find happiness
Because it was soiled before love could ever begin.
So many men and women crippled, invisible and hurt,
Even half-alive, while their friends are puzzled.
You always choose such losers.
Why can’t you find someone that loves you?
Why do you sabotage every nice guy that comes on to you?
But the victim doesn’t have any answers and curses himself
For being wounded long after the perp has died.
That’s if he sees the link between the assault and the lack of love.
Usually there is a memory left of the crime.
There are just feelings—guilty, ugly, unlovable.
Enough rocks to drag the child under a sea of shame
Where they live, sometimes a whole lifetime,
Waiting to be rescued.