What He Didn't Do To Me
By Rebecca. December 2003.

Do you know the pain I've felt?
What it's like to lie awake scared?
Not knowing what—if anything—is behind that door?
Listen for footsteps above you on the floor?

Do you know what it's like?
To not know why you feel the way you do?
To have chunks of memory taken from your mind
Looking for answers you can't find?

Do you know what it's like to not know?
But somehow you know—how?
You were told things you should remember—forever.
But your memory is gone—severed.

Do you know what it's like to see him?
He thinks you know—do you really?
Do you know what it's like to hear him?
Why is he happy? He doesn't deserve to be.

Why can't you remember?
What memories lie inside?
Where is the truth?
Why did he lie?

He says he doesn't know
How can he not know?
He makes me blame it on my mother,
But really it's no other,
Than him!

He wants to work it out.
My daughter—I love her.
A father doesn't love his kids like that.
It's not right to do it—he doesn't even feel like crap.

His smug smile hurts me inside.
I want to cry when I hear his voice.
I want to tear my eyes out when I see his face.
He did this to me. He put me in this place.

I want out.
I don't want to stay in this prison inside.
I want to be free
Free to be me.
Free to see life doesn't have to be this way.
Not having to pray
That it won't end this way.
Knowing nothing more than what he didn't do to me