i tried to string words on this white canvas.
i tried to make sense of my thoughts.

i thought perhaps they would quiet down,
just for a while.
like a grumpy child given a phone.

but that child does not cry for the shiny device.

the child cries for the traumatised mother
who can barely sustain herself.
years of abuse have worn her thin.

the child cries for the numb father
who can barely feel pain.
years of giving exhausted him.

the child cries. cries. and cries.
until she learned to string her tears
into a broken poem.