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My Fathers Child
I was wounded as a child, at the tender age of three. Looking back,I can't believe,that wounded child was me. It seems like a bad dream, in which I can't wake up. The feelings of betrayal,and a retching in my gut. The smell of alcohol and smoke,the deep and seering pain. By the man I called Daddy,from whom I got my name. The sting upon my face and cheek, by his doubled fist and hand. Trying hard to be a good girl, while trying hard to understand! Then, as I grew a little older, it only got much worse. For now before he hurt me, he always kissed me first. And now that I'm a woman, I look back with some disgust. I view men with suspicion,as they look at me with lust. Daddy's little girl is gone now, she died with him last year. And as I stood at his grave, I never shed a single tear. I've been called hard and cold, but I really must confide. This was just a mask I wore, It's what helped me to survive! I'm learning how to love myself as each day I grow stronger. I'm now my Father's child, not Daddy's girl any longer. I've finally found the part,that Daddy stole from me. No longer seeking his approval, I've finally been set free. There's been a metamorphosis.I'm being healed by God's Love. May all Praise and Glory go, to my Heavenly Father above!
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