My father has a temper
one day he gave me—
a old school beating.

He stripped me down
to my boxers
hit me with a belt
until it broke.

then he switched
to a wooden spoon
he said —
"take your hands out of the way
or I'll break your fingers".
So, I did.

Then, he hit me with his hands
until he couldn't no more,
he stopped.

afterwards he went
towards the kitchen
I heard him pant
tired from beating a 15 year old
tirelessly.

He filled up a glass of water
drank it. And came back.
he finished what he started
and punched me twice in the face
like a man holding a grudge.

All of this because
I was skipping school.

But, I can't say he is a bad man.
He is the same man who taught me
everything I know
who cared for me and raised me
the same man —
who for years I barely saw
because he worked abroad in Spain
or he had two jobs
and worked 16 hours or more.

I was bruised red
all over that day
I hid under the covers
of my bed.

My mother got home
asked what happened
and only then I cried
I had so much pain
I couldn't move.

the blue bedroom walls
now, turned white
from shock.

only the straw chandelier
made sense
the light coming out of it
made a pattern
tiny shadow squares
a cell.

The next day I wore
a sleeveless shirt to school
it was dark blue
to show off the dark purple bruises
dark wide circle and rectangles
from the belt and the spoon
I matched the outfit.

and to show
how I was strong
how I was still standing.

What do they call those shirts
wife beaters?
Ironic.

Anyway,
My father later
when I was older
said he cried more than me
that day in his car

Somehow—
I doubt it.