If my family were safe

If My Family Were Safe

if my family were safe,

I’d tell them how angry I am.

angry that they withheld housing resources while watching me struggle.

angry that they looked at the clutter swallowing our home and called it “fine,”

as if denial could pass for love.

angry that they dressed neglect in words like inheritance —

as if the future could excuse the mess of the present.

I’d tell them how it felt to ask for help

and get performance instead of presence.

how it felt when they smiled at my drive

but quietly hoped I’d fail just enough to stay small.

how every time I tried to build something — a site, a vision, a life —

they promised to show up and then disappeared,

leaving me to patch the silence alone.

if my family were safe,

I’d tell them that what they call “love” feels like control.

that I’m tired of being the scapegoat and the savior,

the one who sees the truth and still gets blamed for naming it.

that I’m drowning in their lies while they float on denial,

pretending everything’s tidy and righteous.

if my family were safe,

I’d say I’m not angry because I hate you.

I’m angry because I wanted this to be real.

because I still wish you could be the kind of family

that listens, believes, and repairs.

but since you’re not safe,

I’ll say it here, to the air, to the page, to myself:

I deserved better than performance.

I deserved partnership in healing.

I deserved to be believed.

and I will build the safety you refused to make.

I’ll make a home out of honesty.

I’ll inherit my own freedom.