It was my fault.

It was my fault that I trusted him.

It was my fault that I flaunted my newfound

curves to everyone in the house.

It was my fault that I dare show skin in my father’s house.

He was just trying to teach me a lesson,

Daddy knows best” he’d whisper.

It seems daddy knew all for he showed me things my

10 year-old self had yet to see.

It was my fault.

I’m the one who always raised my hand.

I’m the one who always laughed at his jokes.

I’m the one who asked for ‘extra lessons‘ as they called it.

So it was my fault that he bent me over that afternoon, adding to his

desires whilst subtracting my innocence.

It was my fault.

It was my fault that I worked late that day.

It was my fault that I didn’t rush home fast enough.

It was my fault that my jeans were too tight.

It was my fault that I let him walk me home.

I flirted.

I was asking for it even if I didn’t know it.

So how could we blame him?

It was my fault.

I’m the one who lives alone in my old age.

I’m the one who didn’t lock the doors properly before I went off to

bed.

I’m the one who tried to fight them off when they

broke in, ready to steal my things.

Even in my old age, they bore me new scars.

It’s my fault.

Why are you all looking at me like that?

It was my fault.

Just like it was her fault.

Just like it was his fault.

We fought harder to keep them on than to kick them off.

We screamed in desire and not in pain.

We said so many no’s, they turned into one loud yes.

I took a sip of that drink.

I wore that skirt.

I danced at that party.

It was my fault.. Wasn’t it?

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