That 50%

I share the blood of a monster; a horror; a cruel creature,

A no-good cheater with one narcissistic tendency too many,

And though I make the monster out to be a brutal, inhuman thing;

He is only a con-man that shares 50% of my DNA at the end of the day.

My mothers insists on the similarities between us;

How we come from the same rotten nest,

Why our hearts are so callous and uncharitable,

And that the sins we succumb to are just as filthy.

I admit there are many nights my organs lurch;

And sometimes I let the tears sear my flesh,

The very idea I share traits with a man so despicable is unfathomable;

And yet, that 50% runs through my veins as I write this.

I am sorry, I suppose;

For resembling a man I do not know,

I am him and he is me by default;

I wonder how many more similarities we share (if only I knew him by unlovable heart).

Would you believe me,

If I told you I dreamt of tender paternal affection?

Not now, certainly not anymore, but,

There was a time I was oblivious to the true extent of his cruelties.

I ought to explain my detachment and stone heart;

For it does not come from a place of contempt,

But from the weary soul of a 5 year old war-torn child of divorce;

Seeking refuge in the darkest corners of the cold house as the battle roars outside.

I had grown restless with the war around me,

I had grown desperate with the resentment in my vicinity,

One day I swore to myself;

Inaction is the only acceptable action.

Thus I disengage the trigger;

And unload all the ammunition from my wretched heart,

I beg of you to not mistake this for indifference;

I beg of you to understand the difference.

And though the bombs might have landed 2 kilometers from the same cold house;

I was too hung up on the brutality occurring behind closed doors;

And soon those doors opened; and behold; a man falling to his vices;

Destroying everyone and everything in proximity; not too unlike myself these days.

I am beguiled by the countless years my mother has spent telling me;

The web of lies and tales of devastation that the 50% spun,

It only kills me a little more when she mutters under her breath;

“You are just like your father.”

I promise I am frantic with my search for absolution,

I will bleed out all 50% if it means no more comparison;

I am sorry; I am sorry; I am sorry; I am so terribly sorry;

I am beginning to think the filth in my arteries cannot be filtered out.

My mother still insists on the similarities between us;

And now I must accept such a vile realization,

Perhaps all that inaction was an action in itself;

I am just as savage as that 50%.