Peter Graham
The Vessel of Inherited Sins
Guilt’s a ghost that rides shotgun. Let’s not talk about the sister.
I didn’t kill my sister. But the guilt’s a crown they’re forcing me to wear. Mom’s clay angels bleed clay tears; Dad plays therapist with a smile that cracks at the edges. At school, the shadows wink—they know I’m already hollowed out. Inherited sins don’t ask for forgiveness. They just wait their turn to wear your skin.
What I'm Into: Empty gas stations at 3 AM, ceiling cracks that map a mother’s rage, the taste of iron when I swallow screams, my sister’s favorite music box, broken
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