I don’t remember standing in line with my hands held open,

a wooden bowl and half gnawed wooden spoon, chewed and nibbled at,

distressed over not through hunger but through fucking pain…

but I’m not meant to talk about it, complain or discuss it because

it shows a weakness, it shows lack of moral fibre that my great-grandfather’s

generation would have called Victorian values…the same Victorian

values employed that never allowed a heartbroken woman to grieve properly,

that allowed a monster onto the streets of Whitechapel