He Took

The space between my legs was meant to be private, a sacred territory untouched by others. Yet, before I reached the tender age of five, it was claimed by someone who had no right—a 57-year-old who shattered the innocence of my world. Dreams that once sparkled with potential faded into the background, as I was relegated to a mere afterthought, left to simmer on the back burner of my own life.

He took what was never his to take, and by the age of twelve, I found myself becoming willing, my actions guided by manipulation rather than choice. It wasn’t a daily occurrence, but it happened often enough to leave indelible marks on my psyche. 

Now, at 63, I grapple with the realization that my life has been overshadowed by deceit, casting me into the role of a liar.

He may have passed away in 1983, but the echoes of his actions haunt me still. How does one reclaim what was unjustly taken when the thief is no longer of this world? Despite the torment, I've continued to survive, to breathe, to exist. But survival feels like a hollow victory when the soul is steeped in turmoil. 

The journey to reclaim my own sense of self is fraught with challenges, yet it is one we are compelled to undertake, seeking comfort in the possibility of healing and the reclamation of my stolen innocence.

Is it too late?