At seven

My father trusted her.
Hours of courtroom litigations
promising us that she got a new place
and she’ll never pick up a pipe again.
It only took 48 hours of visitation
before I was sleeping in a bando,
rat feces pushed aside 
for a makeshift mattress made for one. 
Seven-year-old girl
eyes no longer full of wonder
instead this baby girl just
sit and ponder…when will she 
take another hit?
Better yet, 
when will I get hit?
And can I even fathom to 
figure out what I did to deserve it?
Nasty sweat and pungent piss
heavy body on top, with a 
sideline coach cooing,
“Baby be a good girl and do it like this.” 
Whatever a 8 ball is worth 
was worth more 
than your daughter forever 
feeling like a whore.
Rats and roaches
crawl on the floor.
“Mama I’m hungry”
“Go sit down, the dope man’s at the door.”