He never told me about the cellar
Only that silence was cheaper than yelling
I watched his hands shake when he lit his cigarette
Some ghosts don't speak – they just borrow your breath
My therapist says "trauma has a shape"
But his shape was a father I never met – an invisible cape
She asks me: "Do you think someone broke him first?"
I stare at the window. The glass knows thirst.
It's a blind inheritance, a mute parade
A bruise that doesn't need to be made
Your father's father's fear in your bloodstream
You break the thing you love – then you call it a dream
Who broke him? We'll never know.
The chain just keeps swinging, blow after blow.
He put me to bed with a lesson: "Don't cry"
Maybe his own father taught him how to die
Inside, while walking, while eating, while shaving
The inheritance passes – silent, misbehaving
I found an old photo: a boy with a black eye
Same left orbit as mine. Same frozen sky.
She asks me: "Do you forgive him if he didn't choose it?"
I say: "Understanding is not the same as losing it."
It's a blind inheritance, a mute parade
A bruise that doesn't need to be made
Your father's father's fear in your bloodstream
You break the thing you love – then you call it a dream
Who broke him? We'll never know.
The chain just keeps swinging, blow after blow.
What if his grandfather held a secret he couldn't confess
What if the first wound was wrapped in tenderness
We are radios tuned to a station of static
Handing down the broken – the automatic
Therapy gave me one question without a reply:
"If you knew his story, would you still ask him why?"
It's a blind inheritance, a mute parade
A bruise that doesn't need to be made
Your father's father's fear in your bloodstream
You break the thing you love – then you call it a dream
Who broke him? We'll never know.
I'm still here – and I'm letting it go.
The chain...
...stops here. Maybe.