his eyes

the skin and the bones of my home came from my parents. the skin and the bones of my body were made by equal parts of them. my father is a manipulator, an abuser. a controller. my mother is partly broken, held together by her children like glue. i’ve lived fear vicariously through my mother. the blood shed of biting her tongue. the eggshells she walked upon when my father entered the room. he would never hit. god forbid he lay a finger on us but the vibrations of his words echoed through me and my sister for years, weathering us. now we are partly broken too, held together by our mother like glue. i have her soul, strong but fraying. i have my sisters courage, scared but i will never show it. i never saw the world from my fathers point of view i am not the girl i used to be but i am very much the girl he raised i fear i have more than just his eyes god please don’t let me have more than just his eyes.