I felt it inside me.
It was foreign and excruciating.
He smeared his paint onto my untainted canvas.
I can still see his paint marks that scar and lay permanently on my body.
I tried to stop it, but he said we were family.
He said this is what families do.
I tried to keep my fire alive. But he blew it away.
He held my body tightly, savagely and struck into me like lightning.
I felt like I was suffocating.
Suffocating from all the torment, and all my drowned out cries.
From then on I feared the dark during the light.
I knew he would come and he did.
And again it hurt, and I could never retrieve my fire or innocence.
I never felt safe again in that house.
The house I grew up in, the house I once knew love in,
now only reminded me of the pain the night brought- that he brought.    
I hate that house.
In an instant I began to hate everyone in that house as well,
for they never heard my muffled screams.
Or saw how I’d flinch as he grew near me.
Or the fear that broke my mask of strength through my eyes.
How could they never once notice the thoughts I would try to shout.
The hesitant, broken frame I held when we spoke of him.
When I tried to say the words they would fall from my lips and disappear into the wind.
I became numb.
Numb because it doesn’t hurt anymore, although it should.
And sometimes it does.
It comes randomly, rushing towards and pounding at my heartstrings.
Trying to snap each string because then maybe the pain will stop.        
Is that possible? To feel so much pain and still wonder if you’re feeling anything at all?
Maybe that’s why i'm so stuck on what to do, because at least with him
I feel something.