Generational Trauma

The waters of futures past
runneth deep in our cells,
memories imprinted
from those who came before,
and passed down
until someone dares
to break the chain.

Dad nearly met death by an ax,
fighting cold nights for shelter,
the forest his only refuge
’til Auntie played mama
because his father never gave a damn.

That pain didn't end, it spread.
His rage spilled into his seeds,
eruptions at unexpected moments
fists flying, rooms clearing,
the wrath of wounded gods
unleashed through blood.

Mama suffered in silence,
murmuring to herself
visions no one wanted to hear.
She was born with foresight,
her intuition vivid and sharp,
delivering messages
that chilled me to my core.

Pneumonia kissed her twice.
Once after the fire,
once post-dentist chair.
She carried sickness like shadow,
but wore strength like sunlight.
I never saw her fold.

Now, I’ve come
to rewrite this story.
To speak the unspoken.
To break the curse.

I am the axis
where the chain finally snaps.
Allowing our pain to depart
without a stain.
I release it all
for them, for me, for what’s to come.