Inherited Shadows

I'm sixteen now, and every year
I watch my face become less clear.
My smile folds the way his does,
My voice gets sharp—and just because.

I clench my fist like he does too,
When silence stings and cuts me through.
I hate that rage can feel like power,
That I can bruise with just a glower.

He sees it first—that flick, that flame—
And calls me out, he speaks my name
Like a sin, a curse he cast,
A thing he failed and couldn't grasp.

"You're just like me," he spits like bile,
He says it cold, not with a smile.
Like I should wear the guilt he owns,
Like I'm the crack in all his bones.

He hates the fire behind my stare,
The way I scream and how I dare
To challenge him, to talk too loud—
To not be soft, to not be cowed.

But I remember when I was eight,
He punched the wall and blamed the weight
Of being tired, being broke—
But never once said why he broke.

And now I see it in my jaw,
The twitch that comes before the flaw.
I see it in my bitter laugh—
The one that cuts my friends in half.

I bite my tongue till it draws red,
Scared of the things I might have said.
I pray to God or empty air,
"Please don't make me him, I swear."

But no one answers, no one hears—
Just echoes from inherited fears.
And when I cry, I cry alone,
Too proud to call this house a home.

He looks at me like I'm his ghost—
A younger self he hates the most.
He sees himself inside my frame
And lights a match to burn my name.

But I am not a mirror, Dad.
I'm not your wrath. I'm not your bad.
Yet every step I take, I feel
The shadow pressed against my heel.

I want to break this, I want to flee—
But what if he's already in me?
What if I'm not just a part, but whole—
His anger pulsing in my soul?

I'm sixteen now, and I still try
To unlearn how to scream and lie,
To prove I'm more than what he gave—
More than the echo, he won't save.