a fathers hand-me-down rage

My father had the kind of anger all fathers do and it lingers your whole life. The kind of anger that makes you understand that you were born in a burning house, living amongst broken things. You become used to the angry man that lives in your house, so used to it that when you find freedom in your adulthood you suddenly become aware of that unforgiving presence that you miss, you find that now there is no angry man in your house. This makes you susceptible to finding an angry man and inviting him into your gasoline-covered home. 

Growing up you may become aware that not all houses are encased in a blazing, scorning anger, that it may not be normal, with the newfound sight you can see the burns and melted flesh of your parents, you can see everything, every mistake. Seeing your parents' flaws is like growing up and realising Santa isn't real or that God is no more than a fairytale, you lose your adolescent innocence. I don't believe in god anymore, nor my father and if there is a god, he will have to beg my forgiveness. 

When you weep over the misfortune of life, life grabs you by your throat as your mother laughs "this is how it is" you must continue, carrying your misfortune around in a wagon where you are the horse, whipped and beaten. If you must ask yourself "why does tragedy exist" it is because you are full of rage, that rage of course comes from grief and late nights crying in your bed. I am angry because of my father, I hold the grudge like it's a hand guiding me through crowded streets. 

I am angry because of the looks we exchanged when my mother didn't understand the joke, when she misread something on Facebook or when her cooking was bad. My father encouraged me and my brothers to berate her for the simplest of things, so we could dress up as the angry man for a moment, to let the house burn some more, to let my anger seep out from under the floorboards, to let it burn the curtains and melt my skin as I lit a cigarette to watch it burn. Being the angry man who watches the world fall under his destruction is a cruel power. 

For it is true a child can't save her mother for she is trapped in the same burning home, and this burning home has turned her into her own monster, but a child cannot save her mother in time. I had truly searched every corner, every inch of my home for my mother's love but as I grew up I could see her, see her regret as she held her anger in me. I was not strong like her, so when she opens her mouth and spills poison from her lips, it allows the gasoline to enter my bloodstream. She watches me turn into my father as I begin to start my own fires. "You are just like him" she will say as if it means nothing. Daughters remind mothers of unlived potential, she was what all I might be and I am all she could have been, I hated this, for now, I must carry my mother's pain with me too. My mother did not mean to hate me, I'm not sure she knew she hated me but I carried her hatred with pride, with more recognition than it deserved. 

I needed a father, I needed a mother, I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I am angry because of my father but I am holding myself in my arms, rocking myself to self-soothe because my mother never did. 

Thank you for reading, this is something I wrote a while ago but thought it was worth sharing :)