Painted Glass - Broken Shards

There were times before, you know, when I would wait for you to come home eagerly, counting seconds, minutes. Now? I won't be lying, I dread it. But I still wait. Better to have you torment me, than me living in hell alone. There were times, when you would hold my hand and look at me like a precious, precious gift you never want to let go of. Now you twist my arm in your vice like grip, to break me, to shatter me, only to have the pleasure of putting me back. You would take me to that park by our house, seat me in your lap, make flowery crowns for my head and say, "You are the best thing that they've left me. My sun." I used to laugh, even to a kid you sounded dramatically ridiculous; but it was an open secret that I loved your words as much as I loved you, my poet brother, weaving magic with his voice, my hero, saving me from the monsters that our parents were.

Now, you shut me in this house, a wooden prison now, a palace before. No parks, no flowers. You say, "You are only my sun. I can never share you with the world, I will never let you go." Aren't those words supposed to make me feel safe? So why is it that I can only feel fear, brother? What have we become? I would cry forever if it meant things would go back to how they were before, but you and I both know it is in vain. Tears have deserted me once they learned that truth.

They say hope sets us free. How wrong they are. Hope is cruel, brother. Misery, it shows us facts, shows us what we will have to go through. Hope, it weaves rosy illusions around us, all the while pulling us further into a quagmire of no return.

These windows, they were rainbow tinted. I used to love the glass, reflecting my dreams so prettily. Now? I hate glass. I hate the shards that are my constant companions, reminding me of my shattered dreams, along with yours. I hate the stench etched into their being, the poison they used to contain, the same poison that runs in your system now, taking over you, turning you into the monster you've become. I hate the bottles that have replaced our memories in the shelves and i hate words now, brother. Because they are what have turned you into this.

I remember, on desperate nights, as I shiver in my closet, trying to hide from you, the way you used to take care of me, a delicate, fragile thing that might shatter on touch. Now, I don't remember the number of times you've broken me. I cannot be fixed, but so can't you. Every time I break, you shatter along with me. You are killing us slowly.

The bruises, they'll heal, the cuts, they'll mend; but the scars, they won't fade.

Yet, I still wait for you every night diligently. Hope, it has me caged. Because, I still search for my poet brother in the reflections of our broken lives, knowing that it's just a mirage; a rainbow in a desert.

You promised me once, that you would never succumb, like our father did, you would never hurt me; you were my Aegis, shielding me from everything. And what is a little girl supposed to do but believe her brother? I thought the world of you, a world full of painted glass and grass plains and fragrant meadows stretching to eternity.

I still think of you as my only world. A world full of broken glass, raging fits of madness, the wounds, the guilt after, a forever closing cage and broken dreams.

Tell me, brother, what have we become?