Fourth of July

 PopPop, like a gun,

But it’s just the fireworks.

Trying hard not to run,

From all of these jerks.

Use my hands to cover my ears,

Close my eyes so I can’t see,

Try to drown the memory in tears,

But still remains that part of me.

12-year-old me begged and pleaded,

Crying to not make me go.

Devoid of all they needed,

the answer was always no.

So away I went,

To the depths of my dispair,

A place I was sent,

To people who didn’t care.

How vividly I remember,

The fireworks of that night,

And the pain that would recur,

When I chose to fight.

I remember his scream,

When I chose self defense,

His degrading words would seem,

To be his most minor offense.

I remember hiding in my room,

And being forced to apologize,

To a man I would assume,

Enjoyed little girl cries.

This man labeled a pervert,

To which there was no garuentee,

But for me I knew he could hurt,

The day he almost killed me.

This memory bubbles to the surface,

Every Fourth of July,

With every “pop” I “reminisce”,

As they sparkle in the sky.