I dip my brush in the canvas. I think of how long its been since I've painted.

One stroke.

How long it's been since he was here.

Two strokes.

I think of how long its been since he brought down his hand on me.

Three strokes.

Tears roll down my cheek and I paint some more.

The strokes aren't even strokes anymore.

I dip the brush into my paints and hit canvas with it.

I throw the brush to ground and punch a hole through my canvas.

I kick the easel to the ground and scream.

The paint cans fall and I fall with them.

I'm sobbing on the ground and thinking of him.

How could I miss his.

The things he did to me, the things he made me to do him.

I feel cold, and I wonder if I'll ever feel warm again.

I hear a knock on the door and my mom call out to me.

I get up and look at the paint splattered living room.

I better getting to cleaning up my mess.

Everyone that's visible and all the ones that aren't.