|
| |
Inheritance of Fire
My father never hit me--
he just taught me how to burn.
Taught me silence
was safer than softness,
that anger was armor
and kindness a weakness
someone would use.
I watched him carve the word weak
into everything he feared,
watched him drown my brother’s voice,
cut my mother’s name from the air.
Hate was our heirloom.
Polished like silver.
Passed down like gospel.
I almost gave it to my son.
But I let him cry.
And the fire stopped
with me.
Copyright ©
Alesia Leach
|
|