They Made Me Run Through Poop

November 21, 2011 § Leave a comment


You were a lousy mother, always leaving us with these people you called your “adopted” families, running off for weeks at a time. These people were just shit-bags you’d met over the years. These were carnies and truckers and folks who bred pitbulls. These were people who, without fail, always lived way the fuck out away from town, with land scattered with truck parts, just like you can see in the movies. These were boys with buzz cuts and girls with their names airbrushed onto shirts they’d gotten special made at the county fair. These were people who watched black and white televisions and had wood burning stoves. As it would happen, these people really fucking sucked.

Once you had decided to leave us with this woman, Pat, who had skin pink as a pig, and bristly. Pat got sick of waiting for you to come back, so she left us with these guys who drank a lot of beer and wore baseball caps. They made me close my eyes and touch their dicks, then draw pictures of what I thought they looked like. If that seems a bit fucked up, it should, but something important to note is that every single person you left us with eventually did something involving their dicks, and if they didn’t have dicks, they left the dicking to the nearest fellow.

You told me when I was little that you and your twin brother used to fuck. I may have seemed old enough for you to tell me that, and maybe the timing seemed right, because I’d just walked in on you fucking your sister’s husband. Still, I’d have preferred to never know it, because all it really did was make it seem normal to have sex with relatives.

It’s kind of funny that when I write about my sex life past the age of 12, it spins out of me like a top, words perfect and bright, every cell of my skin showing through in what I have to say. Yet when I write about you, or when I write about the molesty motherfuckers I grew up getting poked by, my writing becomes dull and every single word bores me into a state of self loathing. You guys get a lucky break on that one, because it means nobody is going to read any tell-all books I ever end up writing. I’m not like that Augusten Burroghs guy who shits out his life story and gets Oprah to suck him off over it.

Anyway, these people you left me with the most, they had four teenagers, and I was only four years old at the time, and the teenagers were total assholes, and I needed to tell you once that when you sent me over there I was wearing these new shoes we’d found at the Goodwill, and I’d been working really hard to keep those shoes clean. They were black and they had a little buckle on them and I’d never seen my own feet look like the feet of the girls I wanted to play with. And Misty made me play a game where I had to keep my eyes closed and she made me run through dog poop, and I got in trouble for having shit on my shoes.

The first time I ever remember getting penis-in-vagina fucked it was over at their house when I was four, and their son, Shane would always make me jack him off on their couch while everyone was watching movies, and once I watched the mom, Llavone, shove a sandwich down my little brother’s throat and make him puke. But the thing about my shoes and the poop bothered me more than any of that stuff. It seemed so unfair, the things these people were allowed to take, and the things you were able to leave behind.

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