Your abuse of me did not feel like abuse
It was gentle, it was soft, my body responding.

At twelve, I was too young for the feelings you gave me
But it felt good, irresistible, but also guilty, wrong.

The real abuse - the real damage was the wall
It built between my mother and me.

It was the miles she put between her and me
To punish me for becoming her lover's new toy.

Thirty years later, she still blames me
And still your abuse maintains the wall between us.

There was guilt and shame for enjoying the secret touches
But the price was too high for any child to pay.

--The loss of a mother's love.