The Tragedy of Lolita

Neoma

(Photo Credit: Bella Mauro )

There I sit,                                                                  

a young damsel in constant distress.                                                  

At the end of the bed,                                               

each piece of clothing removed                              

even Disney underwear.

Seven years old—no longer a virgin!

I was never a nymphet,                                            

just the target of pedophilic intentions.                

Twelve years old—my body is changing.                           

Test tube to an hour-glass figure,                                         

flat ass to one that draws attention.         

Thirteen years old—a true nymphet!                                  

Nabokov would be drooling.                                  

I’d be his new Lolita.                                                 .

Fifteen years old—I’m tired of getting touched.  

My guy friends grab my tits, my ass                     

and sometimes their fingers travel a little further.

Sixteen years old—I lied to my boyfriend.

He thought he was my first,

but he can never know the truth.

Seventeen years old—dancing in my room,

singing along as Lana goes,

“Hey, Lolita, hey!”

Nineteen years old—diagnosed Bipolar with PTSD.

I take my pill cocktail once a day, before bed,

maybe with a glass of wine, or two, or ten.

Twenty years old—I finally read Lolita.

What poor little Dolly didn’t know—

we share a story.

Looking in the mirror now,

on opposite sides of the glass,                                                                            

her belly swollen,

my eyes sunken, saying

“Hey, Lolita, hey.”