They stab me with words,
daggers dipped in pride,
then smile,
like the wound was something I should hide.
They spit fire,
call it care,
shatter my bones
then say “we were always there.”
Parents, they call themselves,
holy and divine,
but love doesn’t choke
like a tightening vine.
Every slap of their tongue
tastes of rust,
they demand my devotion
while grinding my trust.
They say “you’re nothing without us,”
and maybe they’re right—
because every scar they left
still glows at night.
I was the ash
they set aflame,
and then blamed me
for burning in shame.
Their comfort is cold,
their hugs are knives,
they feed on my silence,
they feast on my lives.
Respect, respect—
that’s all they preach,
but the bruises of words
teach what sermons can’t teach.
They crown themselves gods,
and I, just a pawn,
but even pawns dream
of a day they’re gone.
Love? An illusion.
Family? A chain.
They baptize me in torment,
then call it my gain.
So I wear my frost
like second skin,
let venom coat
the cracks within.
And when they ask,
“Why don’t you smile?”
I’ll whisper—
You killed it. All the while.
