1997-2002: 

[No memories] 

 

late 2003, one hour south of Switzerland:

 

Dad smashed my Gameboy. 

He told me the screen looked better as a sunset.

I’m only seven, but

I’d like to throw him

from our balcony to the pavement.

 

Then I would hold up the pieces and say “look at all that red. 

Pretty, isn’t it?”

 

I have to go press a bite mark 

into my big brother’s arm

and strangle my pillow into unconsciousness.

I’m afraid to slam doors.

When I sob, it’s because I’m ‘tired’.

This is what he tells mom.

2004:

Kids at school taught me the phrase vaffanculo.

I traded them with “fuck you”.

When I get excitable, dad thinks I’m losing control

if I hear him bellow “basta così!”

 

I protect my head and ass

from a boot or backhand or wooden spoon. 

I’m forced to spend hours with

my nose in the corner of a wall. 

I said that doesn’t tickle. I hate you Mr. Claw.

I’m only seven but

I no longer cry every day.

 

I stare. 

My silence is a white flag.

When I wear a mask I’m not punished.