d a d d y ' s : l i t t l e :g i r l

Daddy’s Little Girl

Twelfth Grade’s Nightmare
just arrived, in her too-short skirt
and purple knee-highs.
Sister Mary Margaret
tries to flag her down, with that yellow
ruler flying. She’s raising holy hell
throughout the halls,
but Twelfth Grade’s Nightmare
breezes past, rolling bloodshot eyes
behind her sunglasses.

Saint Catherine’s High School
watches where she goes, and backs away
at the sight of non-uniform clothes.
Her plastic bracelets
trail over her wrists to hide
her ruined veins from their eyes.
She tried to hide that stain
stuck on the shower curtain, too—
the one that looked like blood,

or hair dye. Her mother
yelled when she saw it there,
dull red-brown
against the white lace.
And Twelfth Grade’s Nightmare
frowned, and lied—

and said it was dye.

She hadn’t looked in Daddy’s eyes
since her made her drop the blood—
pushed her in the shower,
pushed her hard, made her cry—
tore Grandma’s white lace curtain
and smeared blood on its inside—

but he smiled

because Daddy knew the truth
(since he was there)
and forced her to become
Twelfth Grade’s Nightmare.