Healing Trauma, Life Stories, Poetry

broken bread

I sat down

on the dirt ground

looked at the broken bread

that is left for me to eat

it’s dried up and cold

and looks like it’s growing mold

How did I come to be here?

I wondered to myself

a far off memory floated above me

dropping, bit by bit

She never taught me how to walk!

I saw her.  I remember!

She died alone

without her children to hold

I remember her heavy foot steps

and the redness in her eyes

I remember she told me to pray

pray with all my heart!

we would stay up very late

before I awoke, she was gone

working all day again

Tired and sad she would come back home

like usual, very very late

They killed Arthur today

he was her favorite one

just as if he was her own son

he was my favorite one too!

That tall, handsome, full of love and smiles

half-brother of mine

the only father figure I ever had

I was 6. He was 21.

Don’t cry, gabriela, don’t cry!

Pray as hard as you can

Mom, I wish you would have thought

of running away!

So many years later,

they come to me

I have the most smiles to give

Everyone accuses me of kindness

Have you ever thought

to be kind to me in return!

“Kind” is not the thing I want to be

when my own life is left empty

I do not judge you for the life you live

but don’t come to me

if you have nothing to give

4 thoughts on “broken bread”

  1. The happy sounds of childhood innocence are too often heard best from a distance in time or space – & ideally at second hand.

    & even reading this is like having your soul scoured by broken glass.


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