William the Conqueror

I knew a Guillermo or William, who had a liquor-flavored tongue that conquered my mother and peeled her skin. His words were alcoholics on a three day binge, my mother was the house that they laughed in. His voice turned my mother into a beggar, she pleaded not to be a victim of his love. The portraits that hung in his home were images of his hand imprinted on my mother’s suspecting face. He played pity so well. So well, that my mother accepted his violent imperfections and learned to live in an imaginary home. Where are you now father?