When I was 7, I saw hell
possess the skin of my father.
There was a madman's fury
Simmering in him, his eyes orbs of darkness
and dementia.
I expected flames to erupt into
life around him,
burning us all but there was only stillness.
Nothing except the salt
trailing down my cheeks and disappointment
coating my tongue.
His movements became lightning quick,
skin striking skin in a blur.
Time stilled. Breaths were abandoned. And a bruise
flowered across her cheek.
At 10, this was no longer a
rare occurrence.
The Easter bunny was still
Real.
but silence after 6:00 was not.
Anger took refuge under the devil's skin.
The devil took us to church.
Holy water never stung him but my mother
flinched every time and that's when I knew
God abandoned us.
Abandoned me.
My mother's face was a
patchwork quilt of blues and purple skein
beneath paper skin. She
never spoke much but her smile was this
permanent fixture.
My poor mother, always smiling even when he
would use her body as the canvas for
his manic art.
My poor mother, painted in
black and blue,
purple and yellow.
So colourful.
So painful.
My mother sat me down at 15,
still smiling so
brilliantly.
Warned me about men with
easy smiles and
silver tongues.
She told me of the
devil laying dormant under the skin
of men.
Her eyes spoke volumes of
torment even as the smile grew
wider,
wider,
wider.
I vowed then to not end up like her
and after all,
Prevention is b e t t e r than the cure.
- on why I stole the lives of boys