you became him
You cried about your father
but you’re just like him—
same poison in your mouth,
same violence dressed up as love.
You wore your trauma like an apology
before I even knew what I was apologising for.
Made me hold your broken pieces
while you broke me with the same hands.
I used to think monsters looked monstrous.
I didn’t know they could smile softly,
kiss your forehead,
ask if you’re okay
while teaching your body how to leave itself.
You watched me freeze
and called it permission.
Watched me disappear inch by inch
and still wanted more.
There are nights I still feel you
like smoke trapped in my lungs,
like fingerprints beneath my skin
I cannot claw out no matter how hard I try.
And you—
you get to walk around untouched,
telling stories where you are wounded,
where you are misunderstood,
where your childhood explains
the blood on your hands.
But hurt people do not get to hurt people
and call themselves helpless.
You knew exactly what you were doing.
That is the part that keeps me awake.
The way you paused long enough
to hear me go quiet.
The way you looked at me after,
not ashamed—
just satisfied that I stayed.
I hope one day
your reflection starts speaking back.
I hope it sounds like every person
you ever made afraid.
I hope your father’s face
stares at you from the mirror
until you finally understand
what you became.
Because I carried your violence
like it was my fault for far too long.
I buried myself alive
just to survive your version of love.
But listen to me now—
I am done carrying the shame
of what you chose to do.
You do not get to haunt me forever.
I survived you.
And that should terrify you most of all.
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