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The moment I thought I forgave you, you revealed yourself again. Leaving me out of your decisions, you chose your own way—whatever protected you, whatever you desired. The father who once claimed I would walk through fire for you couldn’t stay home. He couldn’t remain present.

And just when I thought I had silenced the lies, when I had overcome the sorrow to be written about for centuries to come—in prose only angels could uplift, in words saints could never apologize for—you showed yourself again.

It gets harder to forgive you. Harder to love you.

I sit still, trying to hold the rock of pain above my head, feeling its weight pound dust onto me like relentless rain. The harder I hold it, the more it crushes me. And slowly, I realize: I don’t have to. I can lay it down. Not for you. Not for your selfish nature, not for the signatures you would sign but never uphold, the words you carry but never walk through. Not for the empty weight of your bold, unremarkable promises, the echo of every man who came after you.

I can’t hold the flame. I can’t bury the noise.

So I become it.

I become the flame.

I become the noise.