Broken chalk

My chalk had snapped in two. 
Two clean pieces, so much cleaner
Than my grades will ever be.
Sometimes I wonder why I exist. Why 
I am such a failure in the essence
Of my being as I stand, head bowed,
In front of the couple who never deserved me.
Never deserved the anger I cause, the disappointment
That I am far from perfect -- only human.
Too small and young and silly.
Flawed; like my broken chalk.

My chalk has crooked edges. Always had.
Do whole chalks even exist? 
They show perfect chalks on the telly but
They lie. They say we're free. We're never free.
My daddy's got no parents. He's got no one to 
Tell him to wash the dishes or clean or cook
Or scrub or all the things I do.
But he listens to the bottle. He hates it.
But he listens. He begs. He cries. He screams.
But he listens. And when the bottle is dry, he screams
Even louder and breaks it. I guess
Those shards of glasses have scraped my chalk 
Like they scraped the breath out of Mommy.

My chalk has worn thin. 
One day I won't have one anymore. 
But, oh! I wish I could care. I am too tired to care.
Tired of piling red bricks on my tiny head
Tired of the hunger that growls within me.
Tired of dreaming of letters. Of learning.
Tired of breaking bricks and scraping my fingers.
My world is now the hammer, the brick and my hands.
Nothing else matters, or will matter for a long time.
Nothing, not even my tiny chalk.

My chalk is no longer a chalk.
All the rubble and bombs have reduced it to sand.
White sand. Did you know you can still paint with it?
Write letters on the ground. Play hopscotch. Just like when
Everything was ok and Father was alive. 
At least when our house was a house.
Sometimes I wonder if my chalk is all I have.
Powder. White powder. But it blows away with the wind. 
Just like everything else here. 
Everything will run out. Even my grinded chalk.