One day I came from school and asked my mother for food,
She gave me some bread, said, “Sugar water’s good.”
She promised me pasta, my favorite kind—
“Tomorrow,” she smiled, “when we’re less behind.”
I walked to my room, tired and slow,
Thinking of cartoons and the hunger’s low.
But I stopped in the door, heart full of dread—
My father was there,
Just sitting on my bed.
I hadn’t seen him for a little while,
And when I stared at his face, he didn’t smile.
I saw something strange, too quiet, too still,
Something I’d seen on a window sill—
On a crying friend,
On myself at play,
On a baby’s face,
But not his. Not that way.
And then—
He said:
"Don't say that from me you ever saw
A crystal gem inside my eye,
Don't you tell a soul that my cheeks mirror a waterfall as we speak,
That the ocean's waters aren't as deep
As the ones that float on my skin,
That maybe birds don't sing for my ears
And the sun doesn't burn, not as bad as this hurt,
Dear child please don't say that you ever saw me be
A broken clock when they needed a rock.
And if you ever see yourself like me,
Know that even a broken clock tells the time twice a day
But just... don't. Let them know."
He didn’t cry.
Not in full. Just shook.
Then stood, turned slow,
Like pages in a book.
I said nothing. I never told.
I learned some truths are carved, not sold.
And some things said in a dim-lit room
Become the shape of all you bloom.
So now when they ask, I just say "fine."
And hide the gem behind my spine.
A broken clock, yeah—twice a day.
But mostly still.
In every way.
©gj30
G