inheritance

I vowed never to love like him, never to raise my voice like storms, never to carry anger like it was blood in my veins. But blood doesn’t ask permission. It repeats itself anyway. Now I see him in my hands when they shake, in the way my eyes go quiet when I’m cornered, in the silence I use because speaking feels dangerous. The control I thought was mine was his all along the need to keep everything placed, perfect, still when emotions get too loud to hold. And it terrifies me how easily a person becomes what they spent a lifetime outrunning. I catch myself mid-sentence, the same cadence, the same cut of words, and the room goes cold before I can stop it. I mourn it quietly, this inheritance no one sees. No one asks why I flinch at raised voices, why I organize chaos into straight lines, why I apologize for existing too loudly. The hardest part of growing up is realizing some wounds don’t start with us they continue through us, passed down like a name, worn until it fits. ~didi_doodles~