Black paint on my canvas

The Sparks that flew off the metal rod

While it was dragged along the road towards the house

Fails to amaze me for I knew what was going to happen

I listened to the melody of the rock

Against the metal as it came closer and closer

I always wondered what desecrated

The shrine of humanity in him

Why did he always smell of sulphur

What made him an inverterate abuser

The moment the door shut

Shivering I stay, not being able to look at his face.

The blows of the metal rod fell more hard

On her heart than on her body

The tempestuous wind never calmed down

Inside these four walls . . . .

So many days, so many blows,

So many metal rods, blood and marks and cuts and screams.

I wish Mamma was bold

But never did she let the metal rod touch me,

But I wish that she did that for her too. . . .

She says that he was never always like this

But still he’s the smear of black paint

On my canvas

He’s the indelible mark on my childhood. . . .

He is my Pappa and I wish that he wasn’t.

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