Piece Keeper

Note* to be revisited and rearranged

I didn’t know depression had a name.
I only recognized it by the shape
It would take
On the days
Mama couldn’t leave her bed.
More accurately
By the parts of my childhood
I was forced to fast forward. 

I was the piece keeper
When mama fell apart.
I’d keep the engines running
When she couldn’t do it herself.
It was up to me
To collect the scraps and sew them back.

We could look at mama’s heart.
And I could name each scar and it’s part
In the destruction
Of too much to cover
In one conversation.
In the destruction
Of a child
To naive to know the difference.


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