I kike the use of bread as a legacy, I don't know if I read it the way you intended me to read it but I just thought of the bread as this horrible conditions all humans are born with. That we are all born unequal.
hi, ria! i woke up reading your poem. there’s something in this that feels like the way we talk to ourselves before we ever learn a different vocabulary for self-worth. the metaphor of the bread, one that is inherited, unchosen, examined for years in the hope that it might transform into something palatable, reminds me of the exhausting rituals we perform when we’ve been handed a version of ourselves that feels inadequate from the start. we try to fix it and when it refuses to become anything other than what it is, the conclusion almost always turns inward: so it must be me. i think about how many of us internalize the dryness, the absence of sweetness, the lack of “butter” not as a flaw in the bread but as a flaw in ourselves. it really does take years before the realization forms that not all inheritances are blessings, and not all metaphors handed to us by family, culture, or faith are meant to be swallowed. some things are just hard and none of it has anything to do with our worth. anyway, just wanted to share that musing. great poem!
Gasp
I kike the use of bread as a legacy, I don't know if I read it the way you intended me to read it but I just thought of the bread as this horrible conditions all humans are born with. That we are all born unequal.
was this a punishment? a manifestation - ouch that hurt.. i love the writing though!
lit
the last stanza shot me through the heart
Beautiful and honest writing. Your last two paragraphs reminded me of the song “God Must Hate Me” by Catie Turner. Thanks for sharing your work!
Allow me to deposit a bit of garbage. The poem is lovely. Very glad you decided to write it.
appreciate it!
hi, ria! i woke up reading your poem. there’s something in this that feels like the way we talk to ourselves before we ever learn a different vocabulary for self-worth. the metaphor of the bread, one that is inherited, unchosen, examined for years in the hope that it might transform into something palatable, reminds me of the exhausting rituals we perform when we’ve been handed a version of ourselves that feels inadequate from the start. we try to fix it and when it refuses to become anything other than what it is, the conclusion almost always turns inward: so it must be me. i think about how many of us internalize the dryness, the absence of sweetness, the lack of “butter” not as a flaw in the bread but as a flaw in ourselves. it really does take years before the realization forms that not all inheritances are blessings, and not all metaphors handed to us by family, culture, or faith are meant to be swallowed. some things are just hard and none of it has anything to do with our worth. anyway, just wanted to share that musing. great poem!
i'm happy you liked the poem
Wow!🥲💙🩵💚
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