The Memories that Live in my head

Bend over it might hurt a little but take it. He put his dick in my butt.

Come here suck this. Suck all of our dicks. It was me him, his brother, and my three siblings.

Go get some paper. I brought the paper he writes on it. Here hang this up on the wall. This is The Dick suckin room. That’s what we are going to call it the Dick suckin room.

Let’s play house. I’ll be the dad and you be the mom. Let’s hump that’s the what parents do. I don’t wanna do it she said. Well you have too because that how you play house. You have to have sex. Now the doctor has to cut you stomach and take the baby out. He took a piece of cardboard and cut my stomach into 8 parts. Then used my baby brother as our baby.

Sometimes we’d act like we were dogs. Then he would get behind me and put his penis inside of me.

One time for Christmas I got a huge pink and white Barbie doll house. The front porch light lit up it was very bright. In the closet he would take me there to have sex and he would use the light from the dollhouse to be able to see.

Sex with my brothers. Something that I will never ever forget. Not just my brothers but other children that were around too. They’d make me suck my little brother penis, it was uncircumcised it looked weird they called it an Alien. They all laugh, look at the alien. He was just a year younger than me. Sis, remember the alien he was about 8/9 when he brought it up again. Tears flow at the words he spoke. He prolly had no idea what he was saying. Life comes with many tragedies and some but many blacks have experienced sexual assault during their childhood.

My brother now is an addict. My mom and other can’t understand why he gets high all day and everyday. Well, I know why. It’s because the memories of what happened to him haunt him. They still linger in his mind. He was always fragile and weaker than the rest of us. He wasn’t strong enough to handle what happened. So many think he is just a addict who smoke weed all day. But he is suffering within his own mind the events that seem to be real to him. They call that PTSD.

Occasionally I feel like I should be the one to blame but I was a child too. How could I have protected him. I needed someone to protect me.

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