Not the Way You Think
You call it inheritance.
A family trait.
A gift passed down like heirloom steel.
Like pain was something you wrapped in a bow
and handed down gently.
You speak of me
like I’m your proudest work—
a trophy polished by your hands.
You tell people you made me strong.
But let me say it here—
You didn’t raise a fighter.
You cornered a child
until her fists became language.
I didn’t write because I was inspired.
I wrote because I couldn’t breathe.
Because being your daughter felt like drowning
in something heavier than the ocean.
Something ancient.
Like shame that doesn’t belong to me
but still lives in my bones.
You might think I got this from you—
the way I make people feel something.
And maybe that’s the only thing we have in common:
making people feel things
they didn’t ask to feel.
And the worst part?
You still think you made me.
Like I’m a reflection of your brilliance.
Like I owe this strength to your absence.
You say you’re proud of me.
But pride implies you helped.
And you didn’t.
So yes—
you made me.
But not the way you think.