The Curse In Blood; Burned But Unconsumed

Once,

long before I was born,

a shadow entered our line.

The shadow, did not knock,

did not ask, It just curled itself in the womb like a serpent, waiting for its hour.

They call it addiction,

but I know it as a curse.

To me, addiction is an ancient hunger that hollowed my mother’s bones and drank her tenderness dry.

My mothers arms were meant for holding,

but instead they became altars;

offering skin to the needle, lungs to the smoke, and teeth to the powder’s bite.

This is how the curse feeds;

not on one body, but on every body born from it.

Children inherit the silence, the missed birthdays, the fractured mirror of love.

They learn early that the mother’s eyes look elsewhere, that lullabies can slur, that absence can wear their parent’s face.

Addiction,

It is a demon of generations,

it does not care for names, only blood.

Addiction whispers to daughters, to sons, to the unborn, pressing its promise;

You will be mine too.

But curses are not unbreakable.

They crack under defiance, under voices that refuse silence, under children who learn to speak new names for themselves.

I stand in its fire, burned but unconsumed.

I tell the serpent; it ends here.

I tell the ghost; I will not carry you farther.

I tell my bloodline; we are more than the hunger that tried to claim us.

And still, I cannot escape knowing how deep it runs.

Even in freedom, the echo remains.

Even in defiance, I carry the memory of a mother lost to the curse in the blood