Daddy’s Favorite Girl

I hate lines
Vertical, horizontal, diagonal.
I don’t draw them,
Or stare at them,
Or myself.

I don’t swim,
I don’t chill in a beach,
Or wear a short,
Or take off my shirt.

How could I do any of that?
When my body tells stories.
Agonizing ones of a million strokes.
For a tiny err,
Or maybe just for existing.

How could I not hate lines?
When I’m covered in them.
I was never enough,
So the whipping was my reward.

I’m a coward, aren’t I?
But are you surprised?
In dark rooms lie my most ringing memories.
Muffled cries, painful sores.
Endless yells, endless threats.
I’m my Daddy’s girl.
Daddy’s favorite punching bag.