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Your hands
Your hands would bleed from endless days,
Scrubbing floors to hide the stains.
Three kids hungry, three kids cold —
You broke yourself to keep us whole.
The cupboards echoed, barely fed,
But somehow we still had a bed.
He drank the money, smashed the walls,
Turned our nights to drunken brawls.
I heard you cry, I heard him yell,
I lived with you inside that hell.
You stood between his fists and me —
A shield I never thought I’d see.
No medals hang, no one applauds,
For nights you faced down all his flaws.
You took the blows so we’d survive,
The quiet war that saved our lives.
We’re grown now, Mum — and we are good,
Just like you prayed we always would.
Your hands still shake from what they’ve known —
But Mum, you never fought alone.
Copyright ©
Sam Russell
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