Actually, I can

I can.

I can stop your groping touches, your quiet tread over my threshold, your silent message that I am sexually irresistible at 6 years old.

I can one day think of you - not as a gnashing monster ready and willing to turn innocence into a hollow shadow - but as a sick, foreign being that I can fight.

I can.

I can hide my insecurities, my discomfort, my problems, my darkness. I can tuck them away for you. For your assurance that you brought me up despite everything stacked against you.

I can neatly place myself in a small box so you don't feel like a failure. I can fold my messy, fitted sheet just like it came from the store so you don't have to feel the frustration of my inadequacy.

I can let forth my Pandora's Box of secrets because it is time. It is time for me to stop squashing myself to accommodate you.

I can.

I can step up to the plate and knock that curve ball out of the park when you won't even show up for try-outs. I can be the mother and the father to the baby that was conceived through immaculate conception. I can love her enough for ten of you.

I can muddle my way through her life. Mistake after blunder, victory after triumph. I can stand proud knowing it's easy to be the "fun parent" when she will someday realize all that I have done for her.

I can.

I can passively, quietly, weakly say no. No. No. No. I can let you sodomize me, violate me, scar, burn, ruin, torture, throw me down and stomp on my resistance because hey, I liked it, right?

I can let you bulldoze through my carefully erected stone fortress with your charm, your pretty words, your empty promises disguised as flowers. I can let your dripping faucet find its way through my defenses and tear them down without realizing you're even there.

I can rebuild myself from my ashes like a phoenix. I can build better, smarter walls that detect your lies wrapped in alluring paper. I can lay a doormat that sends you away before you have the audacity to knock at my door with the same charm, same pretty words, same fake flowers pretending to be new and changed.

I can extend my hand to the girl that you broke, that you shattered, that you annihilated with no regard for anyone but your own. I can earn her trust, patiently, like a scared, wild animal. I can love her when she can't love herself. I can help her write her story amongst all of your "you can'ts".

Because actually, I can.