In the end

In the End

Nobody loves you without money.
Hold your head high '"
a lie against the world's sharp edge.

Money, money
greases the wheels,
spins them past eyes
too clean, too quick
to see us, the broke people.

The woman huddled in doorways,
breath a cloud of stale liquor.
The child, ribs showing through
tattered clothes, clutching a fistful of dirt.

They know us,
the judgments in their unblinking stares.
Better to feign ignorance, tell
themselves comforting lies.

Neglected, abused,
beaten, bruised.
You can stand over me
like my father,
scowl dripping down like acid…

Broke people.
Broke-n people.
Broken.

Rather this, a thousand times,
than the rot of their pity,
their false compassion.
We may be broken,
but not pathetic.

I'd rather be broken