Article by Mattie Valinksy Art by Kristopher Litenberg

It’s in those moments that always feel too intimate

despite being a daughter,

stood rigidly against her dad,

that she finds herself praying against her womanhood.

Because suddenly nothing else matters

besides the chance that he might

disengage his fingers

from the silhouette of her body.

“I pity you,” rings over and over in her head.

As the cyclical droning of his fingers

magnetizes something inside of her

that causes all the acid in her stomach to rise

and conquer the airway in her throat.

By way of fire.

They share a sort of quiet desperation

in these moments.

His born of thoughtless depravity,

hers a semblance of wistful denial.

Both centered on the root of her nausea.

Does she accept her fate,

look forward and strain to understand

the fumbling gestures?

The ones her dad sometimes leaves

lingering in the spaces between them?

A lot can be blamed on space.

She’s no longer a religious person per se

But there are these moments

that still call for something deeper than begging where the loss of prayer is felt.

Something that feels less demeaning,

less dreadful…maybe?

Then once again finding herself at the mercy of him.