She taught me to pray
with hands that bruised the bread
and sometimes, me.
The kitchen smelled of cinnamon,
but the corners were quiet with grief.
I was loved--loudly, then not at all.
Her laugh could warm
a whole December,
but silence followed when I needed June.
She carried me like gospel,
until I questioned her scripture.
Then, I became her quiet sin.
Still--
I make her biscuits...
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