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.