poem from the prompt "anger"

I wonder if there is a world out there where I am gentle.
Where flowers like daisies grow from each step I take—
Where I have filed down my claws and I do not leave a mark on everything I love.

I wonder if I tried just a bit harder if my voice would be softer, kinder—
I wonder if there is a time where I can be soft, and simple.

I wonder if there is a way I could get rid of this family heirloom,
this anger,
This anger that lingers—
Under my nails, in my chest—
This painful reminder of my harshness,
The abrupt unkindliness of my person.

This anger has been passed down,
Father to son,
Mother to daughter—
A gift that leaves your shoulders heavy and your chest heaving.

There is a reason so many in my family have taken to being loud—
I worry that we are not built for being soft.
I wonder if there is a day where I will be described as something safe.

When you are born among flames, The ash in your lungs is second nature—
There is a reason my parents took up smoking.

There is this burning in my blood—
I have my father's eyes ;
I have his violence too.
I have my mother's hair ;
And her loud existence.

I am born into this anger. I am born with this burden.
I hope that someday, I will mold myself into something loveable—
I think I would enjoy being delicate.

If only my family did not wear their anger around their neck like a prize—
If only i did not inheret this consistent cruelty of theirs.