The Poison You Left in Me

You made me,

then made me wish I wasn’t.

You call me broken,

but it was your hands that snapped me.

You call me loud,

but it was your silence that strangled me.

I’m not your burden—

I’m your reflection,

the monster you built,

the shadow of your cruelty.

Every scar on me

carries your name,

not written in ink

but seared in fire.

You didn’t raise me—

you caged me.

You gave me breath

only to watch me choke on it.

I don’t hate myself,

I hate the echo of you inside me,

a venom that pulses through my veins

every time I hear your voice.

You call me lost,

but you’re the map I’m running from,

a compass that only points

to pain.

And if I am ruined,

if I am reckless,

if I am everything you spit at me—

it’s because you carved those words

into my skin

long before I could speak.

Mother,

you are not the reason I live.

You are the reason I dream of leaving