Echos of childhood

As I sit back, reflecting on old pictures and Bible scriptures, My mind drifts to rickety blinking light fixtures, Where water drips down moldy faucets like a broken sprinkle In that dilapidated house,with my younger brothers and sisters, Our pains etched under my skin like stubborn splinters. Often caught when clinging to the empty kitchen cabinets, While my prayers, spoken under my breath, remain unanswered. A broken home, easily spotted by the absent, Hope as barren as our old refrigerator. The lack of carpet, a bare foundation, however, it seemed to reinforce my own. Locked away in my room, I read and learned, my phone a portal to escape the crumbling reality. Shooting hoops or playing Dr. Mario till my eyes bled. My mother, absent or locked in her room, Her pain manifesmanifestsin powdery crimson nose bleeds . Father, a foreign concept, still a stranger. Daily compositions of tension and anger with everyone es,eci, lly my mother! Our battles often stretchstretcheeks, Until I turned seventeen, and she cast me out into these unforgiving streets. I remember the July heat, hunger gnawing at my insides. Forgiveness came, but our voices never again speak. I seldom looked back, forging concrete paths