RAISED BY CONCRETE

Concrete Dreams

“You eat today, mijo?” he asked, sliding a honey bun across the counter without waiting for an answer.

Jaylen nodded, lying. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks, Mr. S.”

He took the honey bun anyway. That’s how the hood worked. People didn’t always say *I love you*, but they showed it in little ways—free snacks, rides to school, silence when the questions got too heavy.

***

At school, it was hard to focus.

The teachers tried, but even they knew the odds. The smell of mold in the hallway, the peeling paint in Room 203, the broken computers in the lab—everything screamed neglect.

Jaylen sat in the back, scribbling bars in his notebook while Ms. Greene explained fractions. Fractions didn’t matter when the whole of your life felt broken.

**“I’m 12, but my soul feel 30,

Concrete raised me, nights cold and dirty.

Mama work late, and Ty in the trap,

If pain had a playlist, it’d sound like rap.”**

His words were his escape. A way out.

But outside, Tyrell was digging in deeper. And Jaylen knew it was only a matter of time before choices had to be made—ones that couldn’t be erased with pencil.