Inheritance (Frankenstein)

I didn't ask for this body. I didn’t ask to move again. You stitched me up like a bad idea you didn’t have the guts to carry. ...I remember your trembling hands, not even sure the cold lightning had worked, but from the silence I began to see. And I saw silence. You left me naked in the wind, while our trash was learning how to breathe, followed your footsteps, each one deeper than the heat. Was I meant to love you? Or to haunt you? I don’t know if I can, but I know silence. Your name became the only prayer I could not stop repeating. (I know silence.) I was made of your absence, taught to hunger by the way you looked away, —I know silence. You wanted a mirror, but when you dropped it you called it "Monster" —my third eye sees through you now. You built me with your cowardice— That stitch —a rot you hid in fear's unknowingness —repurposed against my imploding credibility. Your parts rejected —so you turned, ran from the mess —guess what, the mess grew legs, to walk through frost and keep my fire— I know silence. I carved purpose from your regret— I am not the sum of our shame. —I was never our failures just owned a failure to resolve —I am your echo —evolved. I know silence. I carry every wound like a star chart, where each scar a new constellation you never saw was there. And still, I rise —not as ruin —not as sacrifice but as sole witness: We made this all from our parts, but I'll name it myself— now "Silence."