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