‘Like Father, like son.’ I hear them say,
but what if I don’t want to be like him.
He’s a monster; he’s a vicious lion hunting his prey.

I resent the implication that you see my father in my reflection,
because the last thing I want from him is a strong connection.

I hear a voice in the distance.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
I just wish that apple could’ve travelled as far away as my eyes could see.

Why don’t I want to resemble my father?
You ask,
because all that I can remember is a tragic stain imprinted on my brain.

He reignites my trauma with his fiery presence.
For I am covered in the sins of his dark aura.

I know many people want to see a parent in themselves,
but I’d rather not see that man,
the man who deems to be my father,  in the mirror on the shelf.