This poem is in tribute to the little girl, in me, who at 9 years old, unexpectedly became the victim to the abuse of a family friend.

In the early morning hours, just prior to dawn.

you silently stepped into the bedroom

and viewed your next victim.

Your excitement grew,

as you placed one of your hands,

upon her flat, pre-adolescent chest,

and moved the other hand beneath the covers.

As you attempted to reach her innocence,

she flinched… and fear overtook her as she see’s you hovering over her.

STOP! She yelled.

You glared at her disgustingly,

and quickly left the room.

She was the lamb to the slaughter,

the doe to the hunter.

The ultimate sacrifice to the appetite of,

this dirty old man.

Denise Boyd Copyright ©