A morning polished belt. His nightly sins whip sacral to gastrocnemius upon the youngest daughter.
Everyone is to pay their debt for freedom. We call it the Amityville Horror-House in Hartley co-authored by V.C. Andrews. Our Father, the narcissist. A teen drafted to fight the Vietcong.
A young math teacher who never STFU.
She is still fifteen. My sister and I watched the other tangles ripped with the brush. We bounce in pain and endure titty twisters for any sudden movement. I am defiant. She smelt of Old Spice, and cheap tobacco. Our Father who art in sin.
Her mourning coffee 