“Father, Please” Fiction. Based on True Trauma.

“I went into that fog bank, where it didn’t really hit you yet, but this time, it’s coming.”

-David Shark


“Father, Please”

Fiction. Based on True Trauma.

by The Lily Maiden


This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character, or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Trigger Warning: our program often motivates people to discuss their trauma. If you find yourself feeling overwhelmed, please, take a step back to address emotional flashbacks and trauma before continuing to push yourself. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, call 911 or the National Suicide Hotline at (1-800) 273-8255.


When you meet me, I assure you, the first thing your eyes will drift towards is my tits. You’ll compare my waist and my ass to my height, and wonder what my insides taste like. You’ll stare at me like I’m raw meet, and you’re a famished beast.

My patience breaks; I tell you to get out of my store–you’re not a customer, and I’m not a whore–but you should certainly hire one if you have to take what isn’t given willingly.

I say this politely of course, because daddy didn’t raise a bitch, and there’s a fine line between hero, victim, and witch. You may even call me a villain when I don’t keep my mouth shut, my back straight, my chest out, and my eyes raised. My thighs must stay closed too unless he has money because my parents just want their honey safe.

Yes, safe. Safety is my grandmother calling me fat, ugly, worthless, and incompetent. Safety is my brother screeching from morning until midnight. I’m the one who needs to stop crying though; this isn’t about me. I need to suck it up, because I’m a big girl, and should act like it.

If that is safe, then so was the time he fisted my neck and bent me over a desk, and claimed me HARD. No, I didn’t fight back–that isn’t lady-like.

Now I’m diseased, and no one wants to be with the broken girl with bruised knees and blood clots in her heart. It’s so disappointing when you realize that the most beautiful girl in the room is too fucked up to be worth fucking.

When you meet me, the first things you’ll see are my acne scars and fragile teeth. It won’t matter that I know how to write in Hebrew, Spanish, prose, and runes. It won’t matter that I work magick with focus, love, passion, and practiced wrist flicks. It won’t matter that I’ll defend your honor viciously, even when you crush me underfoot, again, again, and again.

Don’t tell me I deserve better, father. You taught me to be brave, but you can’t even say the words “rape,” “anorexic,” or “I’m sorry I was such a shitty father.”

I don’t care about that, I swear–just admit that I’m not what you tried to warp me into.

Tell me that you’re proud of me.

Leave a Reply

Write a comment