I hated the angry man.
I hate my father, who shouts over the small things,
the person who lets go of mean words like they’re nothing,
who notices more of the wrong rather than the efforts I’ve placed.
But what I hated most was the fact that it was me.
I was the angry man.
I used to be scared of this ghost,
until it became my own shadow.
It is scary how trauma can shape you,
because you can either change for the better or worse.
How ridiculous it is for me to think and say,
“I’ll never find myself marrying someone like him.”
Because now, it is me.
The one who is short-tempered,
and is easily mad over nonsense issues.
I am suddenly that someone I used to be so afraid of,
frightened by the thought that I may push people away with it.
Since it is terrifying to be your own reality,
like you’ve just swallowed the words you used to say carelessly.
No amount of foundation, concealer,
nor could gloss ever hide it.
With just a click of the bait,
these uncontrollable emotions are suppressed so suddenly.
Perhaps it was due to the love I never saw,
that I used verbal violence as a form of it.
I never expected it to build me up so badly,
that even if he goes missing,
his DNA for sure will still be wandering around.
I can always try and change fate.
Be a better partner,
or even as a parent soon.
But it will always be with me.
Its fingerprints are what I carry.
I carry it in ways that these hidden emotions can be opened again.
Once cruelty and pain start to confront me again,
not even a single moment would be taken,
to process this invisible pain that I strive to heal.
I hate the fact that this was the mask that I had,
and bear to hide every single day.
Yet, what I hate most is that:
He did not only fail as a husband,
but also as a father for us.
