Brittany Mish Writes
"The Glass on the Hotel Room Floor and the Lady playing the Bongos"-By Brittany MishlerWhen I was young, I lived in a beautiful blue house with a pond and plenty of room to run. But behind the door made of gold, a nightmare unfolds.
He was a monster who would sometimes take the shape of a man and he would let his frustration pour out of him as poisoned words or painful beatings. He was waging war on a family of three, more like strangers than one unit. While they were divided, he conquered.
His favorite colors were black and blue, often made with his belt and his favorite game was control which he'd gain by handcuffing you to the basement stairs.
And poor mom is so skinny from all of his mean remarks still burning in her stomach.
I'm sitting in the darkest corner of my closet because their room sits just around the corner and I hear my mother whimper and cry out and as tears roll down my cheek to match my mother's, I grab at the wall because it's the only way to safely comfort her. All while my brother scratches at his own skin just to take out his pain, but we all know it wasn't the thorns that did it like he said.
Now I'm getting picked up from sleep overs at 6 A.M just to know everything that must've happened the night before and to picture the cops escorting them out. We were left in the cold with nothing and were often left to wonder why we always went back.
He was a monster who would sometimes take the shape of a man and he would let his frustration pour out of him as poisoned words or painful beatings. He was waging war on a family of three, more like strangers than one unit. While they were divided, he conquered.
His favorite colors were black and blue, often made with his belt and his favorite game was control which he'd gain by handcuffing you to the basement stairs.
And poor mom is so skinny from all of his mean remarks still burning in her stomach.
I'm sitting in the darkest corner of my closet because their room sits just around the corner and I hear my mother whimper and cry out and as tears roll down my cheek to match my mother's, I grab at the wall because it's the only way to safely comfort her. All while my brother scratches at his own skin just to take out his pain, but we all know it wasn't the thorns that did it like he said.
Now I'm getting picked up from sleep overs at 6 A.M just to know everything that must've happened the night before and to picture the cops escorting them out. We were left in the cold with nothing and were often left to wonder why we always went back.