personal blog: simon

what’s that fucking truth? what is that fucking secret? well, it’s not easy to reveal because it comes in bits… snapshots.

the door left ajar… the silence fell over the house… the tickling of my feet and my shoulders as my father read me stories of dragons and wizards. harmless… and I was six.

that’s how it is. a moment. a reminisce of my father’s hands. a snap of his belt unfastened. the break of bruising of my skin. the rip of my father’s threat. the noise drowned by my father’s mockery. a conniving show of control. the grip of my life. the nightmares of my night.

for each touch, every installment of intimate moment erased, replaced with engulfment of my father’s hands, the scent of cigarettes, ricochet of my father’s gruesome laughter. a stare laid. an indication, given.

it’s hard to dance in the scoop of love with the monster, the devil on my back.

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© simon whittle — second act