My Father's Ember

My father asked me why I'm so angry all the time almost as if he doesn't see me staring back at him when he looks in the mirror almost as if I'm not his own flesh and blood as if my rage was born from nowhere and not inherited like the lines on my face passed down like a legacy I never asked for he wonders why I hold such fire in my chest but doesn't see the sparks that flew from his own hands doesn't remember the nights I spent quiet learning to swallow my words because his were louder learning to bite my tongue because his sharpness cut deeper I grew up in a house that crackled with tension where silence wasn't peace but a storm waiting to break I learned to read the weather in his eyes to tiptoe around the thunder rumbling beneath his skin I apologize if my rage is an inconvenience if my fire disrupts the calm he's found in his older age but it was his rage that struck the match it was his voice that taught me how to shout how could I not carry this anger when his anger taught me how to live how could I not burn when I grew up watching him turn everything into ashes in the name of love.