We are ghosts. We are sardines. With a penchant for pleasure, a father rapes his daughter without remorse. Doing time ain’t a problem, after all, it was his pussy to nail in the first place, and the consequences don’t mean shit to a man with nothing to lose. Even when they lock him up, the memories of sodomising his special girl will get him through the nights just fine. He owns every inch, and he’s tasted them, too. There are no barriers; no answers to give. A hole is a hole, and if it reeks of innocence, then why not? If it’s under the same roof, and its carrier can’t fight back, then who gives a fuck? Not him. Not I, he cries. There’s a storm brewing, and as she caves in, she gives herself to another in an effort to relive the act. Maybe it’s about taking control, or could it be in wishing to exorcise the demons that still crawl beneath her flesh? Either way, she can’t deny her sex. And so she carries her weakness between those tender thighs while daddy jacks off in the prison showers fantasising about all the times he broke her into a million tiny pieces of glass. People see, and yet they look the other way. The world knows no secrets, but it pretends it doesn’t understand just to keep things ticking along. As she scrubs her skin repulsed by the merest of touches, he smells himself and loves the taste that sticks in the back of his throat. A man isn’t a man if he doesn’t break a few bitches. If he doesn’t spit out an innocent heart or two, then he might as well take it up the arse. Aint that just right, sweetness? Daddy does it best; you should know that by now. We are all guilty. We are all witnesses. And yet how often do we turn a blind eye to keep things going? How many times I wonder, do we wish for the weak to crumble and die so the truth of their torment dies also? No justice, only the ability to pretend. They say writers have great imaginations, but that’s nothing compared to those who live their lives in the shadow of denial.