The Dining Room Table

a poem by Melyssa G. Sprott, USA - poetry writer, author, poet

We are as different as night and day.
I am winter, you are spring.
But when it comes to pain in common,
we do have one small thing.

The dining room table—
where we hid more than twice.
The place that you ran to
when daddy wasn’t nice.

So young and innocent
and so full of pain.
Do you stay where you’re at
to feel that way again?

I understand how comforting
the torment seems to be.
No one knows the pleasure of pain
quite the same as me.

Suffering takes less courage
than it takes to be content,
so every agonizing moment
feels like tears well spent.

Do you remember how upset we were
when we saw our mother cry
because of what daddy said to her
and how she longed to die?

Think of how hurt
your children are too.
Remember the dining room table
and remember that was you.

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