“Don’t give her a reason”. Gods, I feel that Debra. Even reading that took me back to when I used to hear it. This is such a raw and powerful piece. Thank you so much for sharing this.
This is achingly beautiful, raw and powerful, my friend. It broke my heart and healed something all at once. The way you capture the fragility of small moments, cinnamon on toast, butter to the edges, a chipped teacup, it’s like watching someone trying to say “I love you” without the words. The line “when you grow up in a house where love is rationed, you learn to feast on crumbs” hit like truth I didn’t know I’d been carrying.
You’ve captured the tension beneath the surface so powerfully, the softness wrapped in warning. That image of cinnamon thick as dust, the toast buttered all the way... it’s a kind of love, isn’t it? Flawed, tired, but still trying.
Thank you for giving voice to the soft, complicated grief so many of us have lived. I’ll be holding this burnt-sugar memory with you. 💛❤️❤️🩹✨️
My pleasure, my friend. Your words are such a gift, inspiring, tender, and soothing. I’ll always be here to read them, see them, and feel them with you. ❤️💛✨️🫶🏻
These are neat. I never thought of making journal posts a poem.. what a neat idea. Please subscribe and receive an original poem every morning
He put the bottle down to make toast. Buttered and cinnamon to the edges is a visual now hinged to my memory bank.
🖤
“Pretending toast was enough to make it feel
like we were a real family.”
So profound and beautiful. Thank you, as always ❤️
Thanks so much Rebecca ❤️
“Don’t give her a reason”. Gods, I feel that Debra. Even reading that took me back to when I used to hear it. This is such a raw and powerful piece. Thank you so much for sharing this.
Thank you for being here and reading Priya ❤️
This is achingly beautiful, raw and powerful, my friend. It broke my heart and healed something all at once. The way you capture the fragility of small moments, cinnamon on toast, butter to the edges, a chipped teacup, it’s like watching someone trying to say “I love you” without the words. The line “when you grow up in a house where love is rationed, you learn to feast on crumbs” hit like truth I didn’t know I’d been carrying.
You’ve captured the tension beneath the surface so powerfully, the softness wrapped in warning. That image of cinnamon thick as dust, the toast buttered all the way... it’s a kind of love, isn’t it? Flawed, tired, but still trying.
Thank you for giving voice to the soft, complicated grief so many of us have lived. I’ll be holding this burnt-sugar memory with you. 💛❤️❤️🩹✨️
Oh Saira… your comment brought tears to my eyes. Thank you for seeing it and for feeling it. 🤍🍞
My pleasure, my friend. Your words are such a gift, inspiring, tender, and soothing. I’ll always be here to read them, see them, and feel them with you. ❤️💛✨️🫶🏻