inherited ghosts in my bloodstream

if there was something i regret i am not,
it would be being a responsible daughter...
and a good example of an older sister.

i wasn’t the rebel.
i didn’t sneak out
or break rules for the thrill.

i wasn’t reckless in the loud, cinematic kind of way.
i was something quieter—more dangerous, i think.
i was the kind of person who needed things to go my way.

not because i was selfish.
not always.
but because control felt like safety.
and if i had to bend the world just a little to feel that safety,
then i would.

i didn’t shout at my siblings
or try to make them into something they weren’t.
i let them be who they wanted,
as long as it didn’t hurt them.

but sometimes i wonder
if that was neglect in disguise.
if i was so busy trying not to be her,
not to be him,
that i forgot to be someone.

the truth is,
i became what i feared.

i became a cocktail
of the very things i swore i’d break free from.

i got my father’s temper—
the kind that simmers even when the room is silent.
i got my mother’s fragility—
the kind that makes you cry over spilled milk,
not because of the milk,
but because of all the things it reminds you
you can’t control.

i am my father’s clenched fists
and my mother’s trembling hands.
i am his storm
and her flood.
i am the anger
and the apology that always comes too late.

sometimes i think
i’m just a collection of inherited ghosts,
trying to make a home out of haunted bones.
trying to love people right
while carrying a blueprint of broken love.

i didn’t mean to hurt anyone.
i swear.

but damage doesn’t always come from loud crashes—
it comes from patterns.
it comes from silence.
it comes from the way i flinch at kindness
or how i apologize for existing
when no one asked me to.

i wanted to be someone they could be proud of.
a daughter who didn’t make her mother cry.
a sister they could run to, not run from.

instead,
i became a version of everything i didn’t want to be,
disguised as someone who looks put together.

i’m still trying to unlearn.
still trying to separate
where they end
and i begin.
still trying to believe
that blood isn’t fate.

so if no one’s ever told you:
you’re allowed to change.
you’re allowed to grow past the version of you that survived.
you’re allowed to be better than what raised you.
and you’re allowed to forgive yourself
for not getting it right the first time.

i’m trying to believe that, too.

this is one of those things i never said out loud.
maybe because i was afraid to hear it echo.
maybe because it felt like admitting defeat.

but silence never saved anyone.

so here it is.
my unfinished apology.
my quiet confession.
my soft rebellion.

the truth, finally—
unwrapped. raw.
and mine.