When your father’s angry, his mustache bristles.

Words fire fusillades. You’re too weak, what good is art, you need to fuck around, use people, don’t trust anyone.

When he’s in a good mood, he proclaims you his light.

You build walls of mendacities. First you make up fictitious girlfriends, prestigious fake awards, even fake fistfights. You add bloody detail for his enjoyment.

Sometimes, you wish you could confront his philosophies, a verbal marksman.

His words are still embedded within you, though. You can’t extract them like wounds and you don’t have strength to accumulate new ones.

So, you keep building.