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Sometimes I catch myself defending you in my head, thinking “We were only kids…”

And then I sobered up and kick started myself into a foreseen realization.

You were 12.

I was 6.

You had no right.

Sex?

I wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

And although I may be a virgin I know damn well that THAT was not what was supposed to happen.

No, not when your six years old.

No, not when we’re alone in a tent together.

It’s cold, and nobody is home, and your hands only move one direction-

South.

Please. Stop. I don’t like this game.

The words blend together like a new definition of pain.

Eyes welling.

I may not know what’s right but I know what’s wrong.

….

To this day I second guess myself, and justify what you did to me and more importantly what you forced me to do. It churns my stomach to know that your going to be a father. We used to be so close, and I cherished that. But now I know it was just a lie. A lie that you forced me to keep. Concealed behind virgin lips, knowing that you were someone I had no choice but to please. You are my stepbrother.

I understand the term now.

Because it’s going to take multiple steps to get over the abuse, manipulation, and pain that you put me through.

On the outside the scars may have healed and faded but on the inside I have your song on replay.

Every jab. Every motion. Every secret. Every whisper.

It saddens me to think that our little “situation,” was the only thing I had to compare to a “real,” relationship.

Take a breath.

Numb the pain.

Ease your mind.

Start again.

Steps to get over my “brother.”

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