His Hands

He is a man and just a man,
I can’t call him dad, Father.
No, he remains just a man.
Not a father, just a man.

I remain his object,
Not his daughter,
Just his toy,
His object.

I’ve grown used to the touches,
The disgust,
It’s all about the hits,
That’s our relationship.

Not the father daughter,
The used and the user,
That is who he is,the user
And that’s who I am.

I choose silence,
That’s my run to friend,
That’s my dad,
Silence.

No one would believe my words,
My story would only be real to me,
To the world,
We are father and daughter.

That’s our story.
That’s our secret.
No. That’s my secret.
And that’s his fun.