Francis

Francis

Again. His hand upon my thighs.

Sensing his head, hair eroded, and the scar
Dark red. Silver teeth. Black hole.
His lips, turned up, twisted
Condemned to smile, and smile and smile

Into the darkness in which I could not see
In which his eyes, sad eyes
Somewhere fed on me.
No more I feared. For the third time
I told off an imaginary child,
Francis. No need to touch.

I knew his response: how his hand
Would rest, wet, one second more; how
Suddenly it shrunk away.
How there would strike
One hair's division of silence
Before the sad eyes died.

Then the voice out of darkness:

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.