He would light a fire in my belly. And I would let him.
I would sit there patiently waiting.
Watching as he would strip each tree of its branches.
He didn't use a single muscle to tear the tree down. It was that easy for him.
It wasn't that he was strong. He just knew the right spots. The weak spots.
Eyes wide. I never could look away. I always had to watch him.
After he mangled the tree he would shove the logs down my throat. Forcing me to swallow.
I would gasp for air.
Beg him to stop.
To understand.
To listen.
But he would drop the match down my throat.
Filling my belly with fire.
I had to carry that fire. Sit with it. Listen to it.
And I'm ashamed to say
I would nurture it.
I never knew it was burning my insides.
Until it clawed its way up my throat and scorched my words.