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 powerf...