It’s funny,
How these four walls can feel so hollow,
How the picture frames are cracked,
From a fractured family,
With a scarred sister,
A bruised brother,
A broken mother,
A monster of a father,
And a girl who doesn’t understand the bad things that happen,
But she always knows,
She always sees the images,
Of the hurt,
Of the pain.

It’s funny,
How a father can be a monster,
How he can’t recognize what’s staring back at him,
A brute,
An abuser,
A manipulator,
And a perverted way of looking at his daughter,
But he knows,
At least in some respect,
That he’s not his little girl anymore,
That he can’t play with her the same way.

It’s funny,
How a daughter can be used as a tool for destruction,
How a child can be so overtaken that she still doesn’t know who she is even though she’s now a woman,
A woman who always feels guilt for her family,
A woman who doesn’t want to call herself a victim,
A woman who finds it hard to grasp the concept of love,
And a girl who didn’t understand,
But she would come to know.

It’s funny,
How nothing can feel like home anymore.