Isn’t It in My Blood?

Isn’t it in my blood —

to hurt those who come after me,

like those before me?

-

In my darkest days, I wonder —

maybe pain and trauma aren’t learned,

but a crown —

one you only inherit and live with.

-

But that fate couldn’t be mine.

I refused, I denied,

I fought that reality with everything I was…

everything I hoped to be.

-

So I told myself to be careful, to be better.

Keep your voice down.

Your glances short and nice.

Don’t hurt them. Don’t break them.

Not like how they did to us — to me.

-

Those weren’t my thoughts,

They were my prayers.

I had to be everything they weren’t.

I couldn’t afford to be like them.

That throne would not be mine — not in this lifetime.

-

Indeed.

I claimed to be an angel.

I claimed to be better.

I swore I was nothing like them.

-

But every time I faltered —

with every wrong glance I gave,

every time my voice rose a pitch too high —

I couldn’t tell if it was me disciplining… or them through me.

-

I was fighting —

fighting demons that were never meant to be mine.

I was running,

hoping their claws wouldn’t become mine.

-

But there were days

when I looked at my hands

and saw their weapons in mine.

-

I saw blood —

hurt in the eyes of those I promised to protect.

I saw their demons…

I saw them in me.

-

I prayed to be better.

But sometimes, I asked myself

if it wasn’t in my nature —

if this battle of mine

was always a losing one.

-

I hoped.

But hope is only a prayer.

And maybe I was too much of a sinner.

-

After all —

wasn’t hurting always in my blood?