Inheritance

Inheritance

born beneath stained glass windows
casting shadows instead of color,
in pews that taught shame as faith.
My self portrait hung backward on the wall.

She smiled with soft hands
and carried a hidden carving knife,
cutting what I could not see.

I was told love
looked like walking on eggshells
and never asking why.

taught that secrets
were safer than sorrow,
that love meant loyalty
even when it burned.

When the truth left my lips,
everything buried rose in flame.

But my mother
held the match
and blamed me for the fire.

I was left in darkness,
so deep I became it.
A silent storm, building.
A haunted flame, turned ghost light.

Not heartless.
Just a soul hollowed out by hands
that called themselves love.

Still, I built a fire of my bones
to light my children’s way,
salvaging warmth from the wreckage.

This is my inheritance.
Not the silence,
but the breaking of it.