It was just that one time.
It was just that one time.
It couldn't be that bad, right?

Then it happened again.
Twice, that's two times. I guess it's ok.

Then it happened again.
Three times. I don't know.

I tried telling my mother but
she brushed me off of her shoulder like I wanted to brush your hand off my thigh.
But that was the first time. Only the first time.

I tried telling my mother but
she thinks that you're the greatest,
that you could never do such a thing,
that because you have a wife and a baby boy you automatically have a heart,
that there is not and will never be a bone in your body that will allow you to place your fingers gently on my lips and whisper "Don't make a sound."

I tried telling my mother but
she threw her hands up in frustration
due to the fact that she had had enough of my nonsense.
She threatened to punish me like you threatened to chop my head off if I ever told anyone what you did to me.

And my mother never believed me.
She believed you.
She never knew that you
grabbed my waist,
pinned me against the wall,
put your mouth on mine,
threw me on the bed,
tied my hands together,
felt your hands up and down my legs,
and kept going up...

But the weird thing is
that by the second time it happened,
I started to like it.