The Echoe of a Poisoned Tree

I wasn’t born a monster.

I was born a boy.

Before the shadow.

Before the noise.

My mother screamed like sirens

when my father drank his rage.

I learned to flinch before I spoke

to bottle fire inside a cage.

Touch was something violent,

or cold like metal floors.

No one kissed with tenderness, 

they locked and slammed their doors.

I learned that love meant power.

That silence was control.

That pain could be inherited

like cancer in the soul.

No one asked if I was breaking.

They only saw the shell.

And boys don't cry in battlegrounds

we're told to "man up" well.

I stitched my wounds with conquest.

I fed on fear like bread.

And somewhere, hurt became desire.

And somewhere, need turned red.

I saw her as an answer

not a person, or a voice.

Because I was never given truth,

just the illusion of a choice.

I crossed a line. I knew I did.

The silence afterwards screamed.

But part of me still whispered:

"This is how control redeems."

I wanted to feel powerful, 

the way I never did.

But all I did was echo, 

what was done to me as kid.

Now I live inside a mirror

cracked and spitting back my name.

Not to justify the horror, 

but to trace the roots of shame.

I am not forgiven.

I am not free.

But I am the echo

of a poisoned tree.