my father's madness

my father's madness is a strange kind of madness. 

you can't smell it in the breath analysers.

you can't hear it in his eloquent speech.

you can't see it on my mum's unmarred skin.

but when his eyes go red and his hands are fisted,

you can smell it wafting out of his untouched plate.

you can hear it in my mum's sobs when it's late at night.

you can see it in the pointed glances from the neighbours.

you can feel it in the silence stretching out for months.

his words are a shock of cold water in the wildest winter.

his anger is the smoke and ash rising from a volcano.

his approaching footsteps are the heavy chop of a guillotine.

with him, you must:

always touch the steam iron before you show up to the room.

be trained to be impassive when you're a spectator to his cruelty.

practice the art of keeping your tongue between your teeth.

don't be incensed when he brings up his islamophobia.

don't be enraged when he calls you a dirty slut.

don't you cry when he threatens you with a belt.

and they'll say:

don't you complain when he shoves you in one of his moods.

at least he comes home sober each night.

don't you weep about how he only smiles at his phone.

at least he pays the school fees.

don't you crib about never receiving any affection.

are you really that lustful?

but they don't get it, do they?

all they say see is a solemn man who works to the bone for his family.

no one sees what's behind closed doors.

i wonder what they would say if they ever caught a glimpse.