He stole her voice when he forced
her to her knees, held the back of her head,
forced her mouth open, forced her to say
I love you daddy, after she’d swallowed
him down. He took her voice
when he took her virginity
at fifteen, when she was only just sprouting
breasts. He stared at her
over dinner while her mother
blurred the scene with cheap
white wine. After dinner her mother
kept drinking, seven bottles
in seven days in the recycling bin.
Her father pressed into her
while she washed the dishes, growled
she should shave her pussy, he wanted
to lick her skin. She cried into the dishwater,
salty tears dissolving the suds.
When she drug the razor
across her skin, shaved smooth
and pubescent, she grazed her wrist
with the blade, wanting the courage
to press harder, to color the bath
water pink with her dirty blood.
That night he turned the lamp on,
let the soft glow blanket her
as he slide inside, held her face tightly
and made her look at him, the bruises
blooming beneath his fingers,
between her legs.
The next day she covered them
with makeup, eyed the razor.
Courtney LeBlanc loves nail polish, wine and tattoos. Her chapbook, All in the Family, is forthcoming from Bottlecap Press. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in Connections, Welter, Plum Biscuit, Pudding Magazine, The Legendary, Germ Magazine, District Lines, Slab, Wicked Banshee, The Door is a Jar and others. Read her blog, follow her on twitter or find her on facebook.