He said "my little darling". He said "I love you, you are my treasure".
Who is "he"? It's my dad, my dad. My daddy loves me, I am his daughter. He is tender and gentle. He is affectionate.
In the cult, I see, I see the pride shine in his eyes when someone gives him a compliment on me. "Your daughter is very well behaved, she is so sweet and kind and helpful! You did a great job with her." I see her eyes shine with pride when I'm solo for a show or mass. When I have to sing alone or play an instrument, when I have one of the main roles in shows. He bombs his chest, he is in front. He's my father, he's proud. I am his daughter.
I am his daughter, girls must learn from their mothers. To my brothers he shows how to tinker, he passes on what he knows. I am his daughter, he is proud, I do the housework well, I fold the laundry with my mother, I make bouquets well, I tidy up well, I am helpful.
I am his daughter, he is proud. I am not a son, his son. No he won't show me, no he won't teach me. I am a girl, I am his daughter. I am his daughter, he is proud but I am less than my brothers. I am not his son.
He said "my little darling". He said "I love you, you are my treasure". He said "you are beautiful". He said girls have long hair, boys have short hair. He said girls wear dresses, not pants. He said you look beautiful like that, I don't want to see you wearing this.
He said "my little darling, it's still good". He said "I love you, you are my treasure" while wiping my sperm stained face with his tissue, he said "I love you my treasure" guiding my head towards his crotch. He said "your mother is a whore, she is cheating on me". He said "I have needs". He said "you are my daughter you are mine".
He got angry when he received this poem from Khalil Gibran as a gift:
“Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of the call of Life to itself, They come through you but not from you. And although they are with you, they do not belong to you. You can give them your love but not your thoughts, Because they have their own thoughts. You can welcome their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You can strive to be like them, but don't try to make them like you. Because life does not go back, nor does it linger with yesterday. You are the bows by which your children, like living arrows, are thrown. The Archer sees the goal on the path to infinity, and He hands you with His power so that His arrows may fly fast and far. May your tension by the hand of the Archer be for joy; For just as He loves the arrow that flies, He loves the bow that is stable. (extract from the collection The Prophet) ".
I am his child. I am his. With his bow, he impaled me. With his bow he defiled me. I am his. "My little darling, my treasure".
He said "you are not my daughter, I am not your father". He said "my little darling, my treasure". He said you're dirty and bad. He said you lie, you have the evil in you, we are going to purify you. He attended. He helped. He hid. He has participated.
I am his daughter, he is my father. He is dead. Did he confess? Did he confess? Has he been forgiven? He didn't ask me anything.
I am his daughter, he is my father. He raped me. He didn't listen to me, he participated. For all these years, I have one thing left of him. A bag he made. I don't know why I kept it, why I didn't refuse it, throw it away ... Perhaps to remember these sentences: "My little darling, I love you, you are my treasure". He loved me, he said so. One day he said so. I have been loved. I wanted to forget. Forget his gaze, forget his silence, his pursed lips, his embarrassment. I only wanted to see that soft look, her eyes in mine saying those words "I love you". I wanted to forget that that day, I was naked in front of him, his hands holding my head. I did not want to see the rest around, this sordid room, at noon between two lessons, I was under 15 years old. Forget that I was a child, that I was his daughter.
My father loved me. He said it. He said it while raping me. My father loved me. He liked it.
I wanted to forget. Forget the handkerchief that brushes my face, his fingers on my cheek, his soft and tender caress. Forget that it was only on this occasion that he did it. Naked in his arms. I wanted to forget the cries in the evening, the insults, the fist on the table, the postilions, the bulging eyes ... My prostrate mother, paralyzed. I wanted to forget the hate the rest of the time, the violence.
A normal daddy says I love you to his daughter, it says my little darling. It consoles and it takes in the arms.
I wanted to be normal. I wanted to have a daddy. I wanted to be loved.
I didn't want to remember it. It hurt too much. I wanted to be normal.
Today I'm going to burn his bag. All that's left of him.
Today I am done. He left. I don't have a father. My father raped me. I am fatherless. I don't want to forget anymore. I no longer want to excuse, to minimize. I don't want to keep anything anymore. Today I want to free myself, wash myself, purify myself. Today I am prostrate. Today I feel dirty. Today I hear cry. Today I see his eyes again, his tenderness. Today I feel his hand on my cheek. Today I want to cry. Today I have to fight not to forget. Today it screams, it screams in my head. Today I want to drink. Today I want to die and not to feel, not to know. Today I want to scream, I want to strike. Today I want to fight, today I want to sleep, to hear nothing, to think, to see. Today I want to see and know everything, I want to remember the slightest sound, the slightest smell. Today I am hate, I am angry. Today I am sadness and despair. Today I am question and guilt. Why ? Why me ? What did I do ? Did I deserve it? Today I am truth and adult. Today I am enlightened. Today I know. Today I am in pain.
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