Inherited Silence

A poem about a neglected child choosing to release the wounds given to them by the people of their childhood

"You only get one mother.”
What a freakish thing to say,
Because she only gets one me.
They didn’t think about that, did they?

“Forgive her, it’s not that serious.”
As if she is the one they sought to protect
They’ve overlooked the fact that I was a child,
Or was I the one they chose to neglect?

I only have one mother; she only had one shot
And she blew it, cheerfully trading it for spite.
While everybody has been quick to pick a side,
I am made to take up the battles they refused to fight

You do not get to dictate how I choose to heal
Or rewrite the years I was made to be small.
I carried wounds that weren't designed to be mine,
And answered for pain that was not my fault

From an early age, I was pushed to make myself small,
to be quiet, clean, and easy to ignore
This, my darlings, is no longer anger, but release.
I refuse to carry what was in no way mine anymore.