This is a collection of three poems I wrote, telling a story of infidelity within a family.

Written with Karol’s support.

A Family Malady

Part I: Father

I am texting fast and excitedly,
my masculinity is taking over,
and my lust has possessed every inch of my body.
I will meet her for the first time this evening,
I deposited the money she asked for —
she told me that she was grateful,
that her sister needed it.
I booked a hotel room,
excused myself to my wife,
told her I’d be late from work.
I don’t want her to have a bad night.

We talked for some time;
it wasn’t only about sexual fantasies.
We talked about each other’s days,
about our sentiments.
She needed some help with money —
said she’d lost it through bad decisions.
Maybe I needed some help from a therapist
because my lust for her
is putting me in a bad position.
I feel this way when I am in solitude,
drowning in guilt and sorrow.
I think I already took the wrong route,
seeing ourselves as two souls
that might be able to help each other.

And we met, we laughed, we talked.
Two broken hearts falling in love —
or so I thought.

The room was too small,
we claimed every corner so fast.
And suddenly,
all the guilt and fears were left behind.
I fucked her hard,
imagining I was punishing her
for being a bad woman,
for convincing a devoted father to become disloyal.
It was the best sex I ever had.
Who would’ve thought
that aggression, instead of affection,
was the best way to make it last?
But it wasn’t enough.

They say the road to hell is paved like heaven,
and Lord,
I am starting to feel remorse.
I need a priest who can cleanse
all of my sins and wrongs.

The love of my life was crying,
my heart was broken but pounding,
heart-quakes at every moment,
my legs trembling, my head tumbling.
I was a coward one week ago —
they didn’t catch me.
But I’m telling the truth now.
Why does it feel so painful?
My son is watching me from the corner.
To be honest,
he’s the one who’s most disturbing
‘cause I don’t notice any sadness on his face,
not even the slightest disappointment.
It feels empty, like a stranger.
Maybe I’m hallucinating,
but I saw the same look
in the eyes of the hooker I’ve been with —
those empty eyes devoid of feeling,
those eyes of indifference
are the ones killing me.

What can I do to please them?
What could I do to make them care about me?
It’s messed up,
but that’s what hurts me most.
I see him as the monster
and now I feel like the victim.
What the fuck am I thinking?
I just think I’d feel better
putting the blame on you — at least a little.
If your heart had been closer to mine,
the result would’ve been different.
I don’t know why that should matter —
the only truth is what happened.

I can’t stand him,
I would’ve preferred tears or screams.
Maybe I could’ve changed
with a wake-up call.
How can he be so calm
in the face of so much trauma,
with that huge revelation?
It feels like he was expecting it,
like it was in my nature.

How to proceed?
I love my family, but I can’t concede my free will.
We had a meeting between the three:
spouse, older son, and me.
She was mad — wanting me out of the house,
screams and tears,
she was too emotional.
He, instead, protected me,
as if I were his child.
What could I do?
It felt humiliating,
but control was mine no more.
It was either be humiliated
and lose my authority to my son,
or preserve my ego and lose my home.

I don’t know how he convinced her,
how he reached an agreement —
to stay in the house,
to continue my life,
working, sleeping, and feeling at home again —
and cheating on her again.

Looking in the mirror I question
if I’m in the wrong.
I pray to change,
but at that moment, I just can’t say no.
They say it’s an addiction,
maybe I’m just sick,
going to every therapy session,
being compliant with all the pills.
It just seems like it’s not working.
Temptations are getting stronger,
and I’m too sick to resist them.

I look at myself in the mirror and question:
When did I lose myself?
Was it when I was born?
I don’t know if it’s written on my genes
or if it’s a defect of my soul.
Oh Lord,
I’m starting to feel remorse.
I need a priest who can cleanse
all of my sins and wrongs —
hoping that my repentance
keeps this sickness from reaching my children’s own.

Part II: Son

A sound cut the night —
a sob in the kitchen.
something was obviously wrong —
I noticed immediately.

She was there, in the darkness.
I didn’t understand what had happened,
but it didn’t matter.
She needed help, and I was there, at that moment.

I gave her a hug
and slowly removed the knife from her hand,
quietly telling her that she didn’t need it —
that it was too late at night to be having dinner.
She smiled, just a little.

We walked to the park in silence.
I didn’t understand what had happened,
but it didn’t matter.

We sat down on a park bench.
Her tears soaked my shirt,
but I didn’t have the courage to look her in the eyes,
so I watched the sky.
How many minutes without saying a word?
I wasn’t counting.
The moon was falling,
and it seemed to me that a new day was coming.

Then she told me, composedly:
“Your father is cheating on me.
I don’t know what I did to deserve all of this”.
That broke my spirit.
My eyes welled, just a little,
but I had to keep my serenity,
show support, follow the protocol —
be the man. She needed that.
Act as my father taught me.

I felt uncomfortable,
my masculinity was taking over,
holding my tears down the surface.
My desire to protect her
was possessing every inch of my body.

So, there in the park, I promised
to support her, stand by her side,
to become the man of the house,
to be loyal, to raise my siblings,
and to help financially — as best as I can.
I told her I’d become a hooker if needed,
that I’d scam Dad or any other bad man
just to relieve her.
We laughed hard, tears in our eyes,
as the sun’s first light pierced the veil of the night.

We walked home in silence.
I didn’t understand why it happened —
and it really mattered.
Without understanding
I couldn’t be sure
that I wouldn’t take the same route as my father.

Months have passed since the incident,
it happened again, sometimes.
Sometimes she finds out,
often she doesn’t.
Sometimes I am the one who notices,
and don’t know if telling her is the right thing to do.
I suspect she just wants to ignore it.

I can’t look the same way at those eyes
and feel the suffering.
Maybe I’m hallucinating,
but I think she sees the same look in him
when he stands and watches me.
I remember she told me,
years ago, when I was younger:
“You have the same eyes as your father”.

Oh, Lord.
What can I do to please her?
What could I do to care for her?
How do I stop seeing myself as a monster
just because of my gender?
I don’t want to become like him,
but what if it’s in my genes,
awaiting to awaken once I find a victim?
What the fuck am I thinking?
I’m just putting the blame on you.
But what if you had to deal with the same?
And what if it’s only a sickness?
I don’t know what to believe.
I just want to know
if it needs to be treated —
or only forgiven.

Some years have passed,
insecurities have resurfaced,
and it’s affecting my relationships
and the way I’m approaching women.
Love, as a feeling — I’ve felt it many times.
But I want to love as a promise.
Is it possible
to love without doing harm?

It’s taking a toll.
Confidence is attractive —
but how could I be so sure
about not hurting a woman with my lust?
The psychologist told me
that I should heal myself first,
but how could I do that
if I don’t give myself the opportunity
to demonstrate that I’m different.

Deprived of relationships,
it seems at least that I didn’t break my promise
of being loyal to her.
She asks me why I’m not with someone,
I don’t tell her about this.
She doesn’t need to know
that our family secret has something to do with it.

I walk and see couples
being in love.
My friends tell me their stories.
I could do better, I think.
But when I start to feel confident…
I think about him.

Looking in a mirror, I question
if I am in the wrong.
Maybe, at that moment, I’ll be able to just say no.
Maybe it’s an addiction —
and maybe I don’t have it.
I know temptations are strong,
but maybe I can handle them.
Look at me,
look at my siblings,
look at my mother —
we have existed, lived happily,
because he gave him a chance to create a family.
He made a bad action,
but most of our lives were in harmony.
Why do I feel entitled to judge him?
Why can he not be forgiven?

I look at myself in the mirror and pray
to be a better man than himself,
without even knowing if I could ever do
something as close as he made.
Hoping that watching the suffering she experienced
will make me more conscious on how to behave.
Hoping that my forgiveness
can break the chain that made us this way.

Part III: Mother

I feel devastated; I’m crying hard,
my tears falling onto his shoulder.
Despair has possessed every inch of my body.

I looked at the sky — with closed eyes.
I couldn’t bear the light of the night.
The darkness of my heart was deep.
Lord, I was ready to kill.
A murderer like me doesn’t deserve to live.
My soul is in urgent need
of a priest who can cleanse
all of my shame and guilt.

I’m in pain,
unable to process what happened.
My marriage: destroyed.
My world: shattered.
All the good, all the bad —
why me?
I deserved nothing.
My head feels so loud,
but the night is so silent.
The world doesn’t seem to care,
I open my eyes and watch the sky.
The stars are just sitting there,
shining.
I gathered the courage to share with my son
the reason of my despair.
He was the support I needed,
but now I begin to regret
placing on him such enormous pressure.
I’m sure it will create some tension
deep in his heart.
What kind of mother
creates a situation like this for his precious son.
I feel so bad,
but can only pray
that he learns to love,
despite the pain
of the wounds that he didn’t earn.

Some weeks have passed.
I don’t think I’ve forgiven him.
He’s now my slave — or it feels like it.
I could do whatever I want to him,
never in my life have I held so much power,
but it didn’t matter.
Honestly,
I would prefer
to settle for being his partner.

I look at myself in the mirror and wonder
When did I lose himself?
Could I’ve done something better?
They say the road to heaven is paved like hell —
and Lord,
I don’t think I’ll withstand.
I wish for ignorance
to take back the life that we used to have.

He is sick — very sick.
Thinking that gives me comfort.
He is sick and needs help.
And I am his wife. I’m not a monster.
I can’t give up just like that,
I should fight.
Love is not a feeling — it is a promise.

But looking in the mirror,
I ask if I’m doing right.
Deep inside, I know:
I’m selfish.
There is no need to lie behind these walls.
Together, we built so much —
I don’t want to lose an inch of it.
Deep inside, I don’t want to be alone at the end.
It’s more about me than it is for him.

‘Cause maybe
If I were braver,
I’d move on and care about nothing.
If I were younger,
I’d save my tears and find a new partner.
If I were honest,
I’d confess I want to punish him —
to make him suffer… like I did.
If I could free myself from one thing,
I’d choose to stop thinking
about when I became such a terrible mother.

Oh Lord,
hear my plea —
turn my tears into holy water
to cleanse all these sins and wrongs.
May my repentance
restore our beloved home,
and may this bitter penance
keep the sickness from our children’s own.