Poetry
Some wounds do not bleed on the skin. They settle in the way a man raises his voice, the way his hands curl into fists before he even knows why. This poem was written from that quiet, heavy place, the place where a son looks at the father who once struck him “for his own good” and finally sees the same fire living inside his own chest. “The Violent You Is Me” is not an accusation. It is a confession. It is the moment the cycle becomes visible, and the only way forward is to ask for mercy, from the father, from the self, and from the child who still lives inside both of them.
In 2026 we talk more openly about intergenerational trauma, about the difference between discipline and damage, about the courage it takes to break a pattern instead of repeating it. This poem sits inside that conversation. It does not excuse the violence. It simply refuses to let the story end in hatred alone.
