I am my mothers obsession, my fathers tenacity (but only when it doesnt count), their stubbornness, their collective will to not listen, their 'there can only be right and I must establish mine as such,' I am the celebration of a wound festering, the scars we keep as victories, uncured meat left to slowly rot, I am their willingness to delay, to bleed, to clot, I am all their miscommunication, unspoken words expected to be delivered, to be heard nonetheless, I am their lack of effort I am both net zero and the sum total of their experience I am a wreath of curse bestowed upon them, I am that which they cannot evade, I cannot escape them as well, I am a mourning prayer that hasnt left their lips because they too, like the rest of the world, have not realised, I was supposed to be vanquished yet I thrive, I bleed and I have much more blood to offer to the altar of madness
I am but a sacrifice they prepared a little too well
