Scapegoat and Golden Child

they made me the scapegoat,
burdened me with blame,
shoved me out into the cold
and smeared my name
down to the bottom
of a septic pit.

they thought they were punishing me,
they didn’t know what they were giving me —
the darkness that sharpens sight,
the fire that forges a spine made of iron,
a heart that grew thicker each time they took aim,
a mind that wouldn’t bend and, instead
turned their curse into something
mightier than the sword —
the pen, these poems, my own voice.

meanwhile, the golden child —
coddled, cradled, crowned —
wrapped in a cocoon of comfort
that stunts her growth.
those poor bastards never had a chance.
they’re shielded from the very thing
that makes us real.
they fed on praise like sweet poison,
grew fat and soft,
unready for the world
that waits with its teeth bared.

the irony is sharp,
like a knife they didn’t see coming —
what was meant to crush me
made me harder,
and what was meant to elevate them
left them hollow.
they ran from the truth,
buried their flaws
in the skin of my back,
never knowing the mirror
would crack when they finally looked.

they live in their delusions,
a house of mirrors where nothing’s real,
passing down their broken pieces
like a cursed inheritance.
they think they’re safe,
but they’re just circling the drain.

it’s a twisted game, this family dance —
roles assigned like chains,
but I found the key in the struggle,
in the scars they tried to hide.
I broke free,
while they’re still trapped
in their own reflection.

they’ll never know the freedom
that comes from facing the storm,
from standing alone
and finding you’re stronger
than they ever imagined.

so let them have their illusions,
their fragile crowns and empty praise —
I’ll take the cold,
the scars,
the truth that cuts deep and clean.
because in the end,
it’s not the applause that matters,
but the strength to walk away,
unshaken,
and whole.