Ghosts in My Blood (poem) ( repost from spacehey )

When I was four or five,

fresh from foster care,

we returned to your apartment—

cramped, cracked, suffocating.

Walls soaked in your rage,
the air thick with anger’s shadow,
your fists pounding walls you couldn’t strike through,
because Mom took the blows instead.

I remember those nights —
my older brother beside me,
breath shallow, eyes wide,
listening to voices erupting like thunder,
the storm never ceasing,
rage bouncing off the ceiling,
shattering glass and silence alike.
Is it normal, Dad,
to grow up where love sounds like war?
Where the calm is just the eye
of a storm that never passes?
Mom was never home,
or when she was, she brought strangers —
men smelling of whiskey and cigarettes,
lost in their bottles, drowning in their pain,
and me, a child, learning early
that love tastes bitter,
like regret left to rot on the tongue.
Is it normal, Dad,
to taste poison before you learn your name?
But then, when I told you
about the nights I wanted to disappear,
you held me close, whispered soft:
“Imagine a picture of someone who’s gone —
how empty it feels, five years later.
I don’t want that to be you.
I love you. Please stay.”
Those words cracked my heart open,
and tears came unbidden.
Your love saved me once,
even when everything else tried to break me.
But it’s so hard.
Is it normal, Dad,
to be saved by words from hands stained with scars?
To cling to hope when the world feels like ashes?
Even when the past haunts me,
even when Mom’s love feels like a curse —
she loves my older brother more,
and leaves the rest of us to fade.
Is it normal, Dad,
to hate the one who should love you most?
To wish them away like a nightmare
you can’t wake from?
I’m jealous, —
jealous of kids with parents who don’t disappear,
who don’t drown in bottles,
who don’t leave their children alone
in the dark corners of broken promises.
I couldn’t breathe that day, February 2024,
the last time I saw you.
Video calls can’t replace your arms,
orange clothes can’t hold me close.
I miss you more than anything.
Is it normal, Dad,
to miss someone you can’t touch?
To watch a life behind glass
and wonder if it’s even real?
I open a beer,
the numbness creeping down my throat —
the poison you passed down,
the legacy of addiction flowing in my blood:
Is it normal, Dad,
to carry a curse like that?
To be born into shadows
you can’t outrun?
I look at an old photo —
my birthday, June 24, 2023 —
you smiled that day,
eyes full of something like hope,
and I cry, Dad.
I cry because I miss you —
more than any friend, more than any love.
I miss my dad —
the one who should never have to be lost.
Is it normal, Dad,
to miss someone so much
that the pain feels like a second skin?
To want to hold onto a love
so broken,
but still real?
And then there are the Bendy things —
toys, books, dolls —
all from you.
I hit people with those books,
angry at the world,
angry at the past I can’t change.
My old friends wanted to tear my Bendy doll —
the one you gave me —
and I lied, said it was from a teacher.
If they’d ripped it apart,
I would have been left in tears —
because that doll was a piece of you,
a fragile piece of the love I clung to.
Is it normal, Papa?
These traits you passed down?
The rage, the pain, the broken parts?
I can’t stop —
another bottle down my throat.
I’m sorry, Father.
I’m sorry for the rage.
I’m sorry for the silence.
I’m sorry for the wounds you never meant to leave. 
I wanted to scream,
to break everything in sight,
to shake the past out of my bones.
and ghosts don’t die.
They haunt the corners of my mind,
whispering the things I don’t want to remember.
my mother’s silent screams,
the smell of liquor and regret filling the air,
a carousel of pain spinning endlessly.
to hide bruises behind smiles,
to swallow the screams locked inside.
did you love us as much as you said?
Or was love just a word
you never quite learned how to say?
your hands were rough, but your heart was soft.
between bottles and broken dreams,
between jail cells and empty rooms.
So angry I can’t breathe sometimes.
Angry at the silence,
angry at the years lost,
angry at a world that didn’t save us.
to hate the one who hurt you,
and love them at the same time?
she loved my older brother,
and left the rest of us behind.
Her eyes filled with shadows
when she looked at me,
like I was a stranger,
like I was nothing.
clutching a ragged teddy bear,
listening to the quiet scream of my own heart,
wishing someone would come and save me.
to feel invisible
in the place called home?
sixteen years or maybe more —
locked away in a prison far from the world.
in the quiet moments,
in the laughter of others,
in the way my hands shake
when I think of you.
I want to be better.
is a fire I can’t control —
burning everything in its path,
leaving ashes where love should grow.
soft and worn,
a small piece of your love in a world of pain.
I lied and said it was a gift from a teacher.
I couldn’t let them destroy that piece of you,
no matter how broken we are.
for the anger,
for the silence,
for the wounds we both carry.
rewrite the story
where love wasn’t so hard to find.
these tears,
and a hope
that maybe someday,
we’ll both be free —
free from the ghosts,
free from the pain,
free to love
without fear.
the scribbles and scratches of a father who tried
to reach me through the darkness.
But words can only carry so much weight —
and sometimes they break before they land.
the echo of slamming doors,
the scent of smoke and spilled bottles,
the hollow laughter that wasn’t joy but pain.
because in my mind, it’s still you—
shouting, raging,
a storm that never quite calmed.
how fragile I am beneath this tough skin.
But people ask —
“How do you flinch so much?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
the PTSD that clings like a second skin,
the trauma that shadows every step.
it’s survival.
It’s the echo of a childhood stolen,
the price paid for love twisted by pain.
wondering if you think of me too,
behind those bars,
or if I’m just another ghost
you try to forget.
for the empty nights and broken promises.
But I can’t.
Because somewhere inside,
I still need you —
more than words can say.
the warmth of your arms even when the world was cold.
I miss the laughter we shared
before everything shattered.
throw punches at the past,
trying to shatter the pain
but it always comes back,
like a shadow that never fades.
So tired of carrying this weight.
I’m tired of pretending
that the scars aren’t bleeding.
but it only dulls the ache for a moment.
The poison tastes like regret,
like the past I can’t escape.
I keep hoping.
Because you once told me —
“Imagine a picture of someone who’s gone,
how empty it feels, five years later.
I don’t want that to be you.”
They’re the only light I have.
For you.
For the boy who still believes
that love can heal.
my tears fall onto this screen —
silent, unfiltered,
and I need sleep.
You said “Don’t cry,”
but tears came anyway —
hot, heavy, flooding the cracks in my heart.
But the past is a ghost,
Your fists breaking down walls —
I learned to survive in silence,
Dad, sometimes I wonder —
I know you tried —
But love got lost somewhere
I’m angry, Dad.
But sometimes the rage
I remember the Bendy doll you gave me —
When old friends wanted to tear it apart,
I’m sorry, Dad,
I wish I could change the past,
But all I have are these words,
I trace the lines of your faded letters,
I’m drowning in memories I never asked for,
I flinch when someone raises their voice,
I hate how easily I break,
They don’t see the war I fight every day,
It’s not weakness,
Sometimes I lie awake,
I want to hate you for leaving,
I miss the way you tucked me in,
I hit walls with my Bendy books,
I’m tired, Dad.
I open another bottle,
And yet, I keep breathing.
Those words break me open.
So I stay.
But right now,

I need sleep .