i was 14 years old when you punched me at the bottom of our stairs
i couldn't believe what hurt more
the bruises or the fact
you could lift your ******* hand
and still look me in the eyes the next day
your stare felt like daggers on my back
seeping through spinal chord
as i poured my morning tea
and you ruled in your kingdom of messy bathrooms
walls of a fortress made up of broken dishes
that would sit with food on them for two days and
some days i still find crumbs and glass in the dark corners of each cell in this god forsaken dungeon

i was 16 when i floated around
the side of my house to trip over
a broken chair
it seems that since the chair was wobbly
it just wouldn't do
and you smashed it to pieces
like you did with my brothers, and me
not thinking maybe all it needed was a little glue
to continue to stand proud
or maybe a hug or maybe
a word of encouragement or two once the pressure and weight was applied
i proceeded by in a haze anyway
******

i am twenty ******* one years old
and i come home to this hole in the wall
that you apparently created out of rage
it gets increasingly bigger and darker with each day
i cant begin to coherently create a metaphor that
can depict the snarling devil you turned out to be
father of mine