A little note on this piece.
First of all, let's address the word "dubbeltjes" in the title for non dutch speaking people. It's just the Dutch word for dimes, silver 10 cent pieces, way before the euro came into our lives
Okay, so this poem is one of the most personal things I’ve written, and it took me a long time to feel ready to share it. It’s about inherited guilt, trauma, and the weight that words can leave behind, even long after they’re said.
Honestly, it’s pretty hard to put something this raw out into the world, but writing is how I process all the messy stuff inside me, and this poem was my way of facing that.
The woman in the poem is someone who left a lasting impact on me, and I’ve had to carry that with me for a long time. To be conoketwlt honest, i am still carrying this with me, and i dont think it will ever be completely gone.
This piece is an attempt to understand that experience and to give voice to the things I couldn’t understand back then. It’s about how trauma can cling to you and how it feels like you can never outrun it.
I’m sharing it because, for me, art is a way to let go of some of that weight, even if just a little. I get that not everyone will get it, and that’s okay. I just hope that if anyone else has felt this kind of thing, whether it’s judgment, guilt, or something else, that maybe this can offer some kind of comfort.
Thanks for reading.
The Resonance of Dubbeltjes
At six, I learned
that sin could be inherited,
passed down like a cursed family heirloom,
heavy with the weight of betrayal.
She was old, a stranger,
her skin like cracked porcelain,
voice cracked too,
but sharp as the wind that cut
through the streets that day.
"You’ll burn for his sins," she said,
eyes narrowed with something dark—
not pity,
but something a lot colder.
Her hands, pointing, trembling,
flung coins at my feet,
each one a sentence,
each one sparkling with shame.
"One day,
you’ll swing beside him,
Judas,
your father,"
she spat, whispered,
like a prayer or a curse.
I ran.
I ran hard,
tears streaming down my young face,
hoping to wash away the malice,
but the words,
they stuck to my skin,
clung to me like ash,
whispering in the back of my mind
whenever the night got too quiet.
I never forgot the sound of her voice,
never forget the clink of the coins,
of how they scattered on the ground,
glinting like distant stars,
and how I wondered
if the tree was waiting for me,
branches open,
to hang me next.
Not even in the safety of my mother’s arms,
could I outrun the haunting tone of her voice,
and even to this day,
her evil laughter,
still, echoes in my ears.
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