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