by gRj
They say you didn’t love them right—
(the ones who left you
with three hungry moons
orbiting your ribs,
their tidal pulls
gnawing your name to bone.)
You fed them with your fingertips—
split your last loaf seven ways,
hid the crusts in your own palm
while they learned to chew your silence
into blame.
(No one taught you how to spin
gold from an empty fridge,
but you did.
No one praised the way your back
became their bridge—
only warned it’d break.)
Now their voices, grown and sharp,
carve verdicts in the kitchen air:
You should’ve—
Why didn’t you—
We needed—
(They don’t remember
how the rent clung to your throat like a noose,
how the bus fare in your pocket
was always theirs to lose,
how their fathers’ taillights
were the only gifts they sent.)
Mother of the unappeased,
your hands still mend their wounds—
though they hand you the knife
and call it love.
Your crime?
The sky you gave them
had no father-shaped clouds,
and they’ve spent their lives
howling at the sun
for casting shadows.
dedicated to P in Austin