i am always running from the
heartbreak of my mother
i feel the violence of
crumbling households as it
shatters against my skin
i hear the roaring of her silence
as it scolds me for my temper
while hers burns like a furnace that
singes my bones

my mother's self-hate is
so deep it resents
the reflection it
finds in her daughter
unfortunate to learn
the very vices she
abhors within herself have
painted themselves on
her frail and young ones

i have learned my
worthlessness from my father
who himself thinks
nothing sacred of his body and blood
who belittles his wounds yet
is vindicated by their presence
as if he deserves his pain

my mother holds her anguish
as ransom to my neck, she
tells me i must rescue
her sorrows for the
price of my strength, that
i must purchase her torment
at the altar of my youth

i have been made to
carry the weight of an
old world, whose
screams and silences
burn as knives in my back,
whose injustices become my
inward injuries

but is it fair to ask children to
mother their mothers, to
father their fathers,
to be all the things they
couldn't be: a good parent
but is it fair to ask questions when
the world was already unfair to them?

life is a violent place.