You demanded a title you never earned,
A word meant for warmth, by you twisted and burned.
You locked out the blood that gave us our breath,
And ruled over the house with a coldness like death.

To the basement we went, to the dark and the floor,
Where the laundry was piled by the open door.
No physical lock could compete with the fear,
Of the rules that you made and the shadow kept near.

Silenced and frozen, we sat on the bed,
With hours of waiting and heavy, dull dread.
Listening for footsteps, the creak of the floor,
For the spoon and the sting that you kept us there for.

You turned heavy pages of cooking and grace
Into weights for our arms and tears on our face.
A tilt of the head or a glance of the eye
Brought the crack of your hand and a quiet, forced cry.

You starved us of supper, you starved us of light,
Forcing cold, bitter meals over porcelain at night.
You isolated our hearts from the world out of school,
While your own chosen children lived under your rule.
Yet even your own found no mercy or grace,
Just a boot to the ribs in a desperate place.

The memories fade into patches of grey,
Where the mind tries to hide what you took away.
Even your embrace was an empty, cold stone,
Leaving us shivering, completely alone.

You stole the word “mother” and wrapped it in pain,
But you could not erase what survivors remain.
The dark of the basement has broken away,
And the truth of your cruelty is spoken today