I’m such a child that when he invited me to tea I thought we were going to drink tea.

Turns out, Barbie had already had a tea party. Darla had also had a tea party. Many tea parties. Sugar cakes, jam sandwiches, little silver spoons and hands like claws.

I’m such a child that when his fingers hooked into my thigh I froze. Come upstairs, he said, and just like the sea so many years ago, when I was a child, he tried to pull me under.

I’m such a child that when he invited me to have tea at a hotel, I didn’t realize that the invitation was to become a prostitute. I’m such a child I didn’t know that I already was a prostitute because I’d been born a whore. I’m such a child I didn’t understand that it was ordained that I could only be a slut or a whore or a child, and whore is the best choice if you’re pretty.

I’m such a child that I thought being pretty was being loved.

I’m such a child that when the young man rode in on his white horse with his white hat, and his white boots, I thought he could love me into goodness. He was a good guy and good guys were always and only good. I’m such a child that I thought the flask in his pocket had water and that the water was holy. The water was holy and gave him holy powers to heal me and make me whole. When I was healed I’d be a better person and not such a child. Or I’d go back to being a better child; innocent and sweet, but also sexy. A sexy child.

I’m such a child that I believed if I was good he’d love me more. He’d love me more than holy water. He promised he’d never tell me what to do. He never would. I already understood what to do, as a child can, and as a child does. I understood the rules.

The rules are written on rags, so faded we can hardly read them. I’m such a child I try to read them. I try to sound out the words from individual letters, but some of the letters are hieroglyphics, symbols from an ancient language. This is unfair. To make a child try to translate ancient Egyptian. The rules are very old, my child, he explains. Do your best to follow along.

I’m such a child, but I’m not stupid.

Not every child will follow the Pied Piper into the woods. There are some children that break from the group. What happens after the ever after?

I’m such a child that I know the stories of the children who stray from the path in the woods. There are children who meet the wolf, and there are children who meet the witch. Those children survived; I know this in my bones. Though I was warned as a child that they wouldn’t. Survive.

I wanted to meet the witch.

I prayed to become the witch.

Instead, I met the wolf. Again and again. I’m such a child that I invited him in. Sometimes he invited me and I accepted the invitation. Sometimes I tried to close the door but he huffed and he puffed and he blew my house in. The lone wolf, the wolverine, the werewolf. They are all variations of the same. Some wolves are grey, and some are snow white. They’re all hungry. They’ll eat you up, because they love you so. I’m such a child that I laughed when he said love. A child who has been wandering the woods alone understands this type of hunger.

I’m such a child that I wonder who is coming to save Cindy when her husband douses her costumes in gasoline and lights them on fire in the driveway. After the fire, Cindy has nothing but rags to wear. Rags that smolder and smell of fuel. I watch the old man in the salmon-colored shirt hold Cindy’s tiny tit and squeeze. He hands her dollars. She nods glassy-eyed. The child that I am, such as I am, cannot save her.

When Cindy doesn’t come back, I’m such a child that I ask where she went. They shake their heads. I’m such a child that I think they all know but won’t tell me. I’m such a child that I can’t save her.

I’m such a child that I prayed for someone to save us.

That savior is here I tell the child.

That savior is me.