“I think your life is governed not by the bricks or mortar around you, it`s governed by who holds your hand and who spits in your eye.” – David McCallum
I grew up in an upper-middle-class home,
Never wanting for anything that couldn’t be bought,
Enjoying the spoils of being spoiled—
But all of that came to a close.
Choices I made, the people I allowed,
Led me down a path I hadn’t planned.
Before I knew it, I was a mother of three—
Three sons, raised by a single hand.
I chose a partner who couldn’t provide,
For reasons too many to list or confide.
I stretched myself thin, worked every day,
To keep a roof, to make sure we’d stay.
My boys never knew how much I fought,
How hard I worked, the battles I sought.
Sixteen years in this humble home,
Almost lost it twice, yet still, I roam.
It’s not a mansion, not shiny or new,
No polished floors, no fancy hue.
I tore out the carpet, ripped and frayed,
Now we walk on concrete, where memories are laid.
For the first time in life, I’ve felt the sting,
Of shame for surviving, for daring to cling.
The words meant to break me now float in the air,
Ready to sting back with venom, beware.
To the one who cast shame, bitterness, and doubt,
Be careful, for words have a way to find out.
They circle, they echo, they never stay still—
And may return to the soul who wished me ill.
The Dish by Deni 