The whispers I hear sounded like my mama
when she is dissatisfied and announces every error she sees in me. The punches I pull felt like Papa's knuckles when he found out I was cutting myself, when I talked back to Mama, when I got home late, when I didn't hear him call.
I inherited my disgust from Mama, while Papa owned all of my rage.
Sometimes, I wonder if there are dispositions that belonged to me—a character flaw that I can call my own, so when it comes to blaming, I can point my fingers toward the mirrorwithout wondering whose hands I'm really looking at.
-Ana Thān
