A little something inspired by my current read: ‚Letters to his father‘ – Kafka

I am not angry, just disappointed.
Not terrified, just in disbelief.
Not filled with hate, but with sorrow.

I see you for who you are – full of pain and scars.
And even though I feel deeply for you, I care for myself, so now I must part.
For staying near you keeps breaking my heart.

Even when you did what you thought was right, I know it was wrong.
You hurt me so deeply, simply by being the person you are.
You wounded me just by being near, with scars you’ve carried year after year.

Dear Father, you shattered my soul.
Not with intent, but lacking control.

You were never loved, that much I see, so how could you ever truly love me?
You couldn’t care for your own heart, so how could I believe you could take care of mine?

In my story, you are not the villain, not the traitor, but the wounded one.
Because you couldn’t heal your pain, you spread it to me, again and again.

You projected your wounds for me to bear, and never showed me how to repair.
Now I fear that I’ll do the same. I may pass on this burden, this unhealed flame, onto my own children one day.
Children I hope to have when I’m strong enough to believe that I am worthy of being a good father.

The problem is, right now, I don’t feel like I’ll ever be good enough.
Good enough as who I am.

The only time you lifted me high was when I met the standard in your eye.
You praised me so highly in front of your friends, talking like I was the greatest.
But when the guests were gone, the praise drowned, like the liquor in your throat.

All you spew were words of hatred. They were words of pain. They were words so ugly, I pray I never utter them myself.

If I were ever asked who broke my heart,
It wouldn’t be a woman,
nor a friend,
nor a passing stranger.

It would be you.
Only you.
Because you broke me in such a way, there is nothing left inside of me to break.