bishop

________

You will be remembered as a hero. ________

I hate that no matter how far I try to pull myself away, biology keeps dragging me back to you. I hate that I carry your name, that it sits on my identity like a stain I never consented to wear.

Every part of my existence that connects me to you feels like a betrayal of the person I am trying so hard to become.

It angers me that I didn’t get a choice.

That I was born into a history I never asked to inherit, tied to a person who caused more damage than love. I look at myself sometimes and wonder which parts of me are mine and which parts are echoes of you, and that thought alone makes my skin crawl.

The idea that we share blood—that something so intimate links me to someone I resent so deeply—fills me with rage I don’t know where to put.

I am angry that people expect forgiveness just because we are related. Angry that shared blood is treated like an excuse, like a free pass for hurt, neglect, or cruelty. As if DNA is supposed to soften the damage. As if carrying your blood means I owe you understanding.

I don’t. All it means is that I was forced to start life with a weight already on my back.

What disgusts me most is how your presence lingers even when you’re not around. In the questions people ask. In the name I answer to. In the moments when I catch myself fearing that I might become you in ways I don’t even notice.

I fight that every day.

I fight to unlearn you, to tear myself away from the parts of you that tried to root themselves in me.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part—that I have to spend my life proving that sharing blood does not mean sharing character. That I can be nothing like you, even if my veins say otherwise.

I am angry because I deserved better.

I deserved a connection that didn’t make me feel ashamed of my own existence.

And I hate that something as fundamental as blood is the very thing I wish I could drain myself of, just to finally feel free.

Snapping. Snarling. Violent.

They tell me to put him down,

But when I see teeth marks in my skin,

When I see his fangs bared in warning,

I see fear. I understand.

Angry Daughter.

Shouting. Screaming. Clawing.

They tell me I am too much,

But I have never felt enough.

When I look in the mirror,

I see a vicious creature staring back,

And I understand.

I am not angry. He is not aggressive.

We are both what they made us to be.

Yet when we are alone,

In the quiet of night,

Or the softness of morning,

There is understanding.

We are both broken, we are violent,

And that is not our fault.

~Maxx