Yesterday, the cat kept meowling back to another cat who was yowling and strolling the streets near by. She wanted them to live with us because, you know; this is a lovely home. I told her that it’s worthwhile waiting for someone nice who would have the decency to respond back to you.
In an era where family photo albums start a person’s story there aren’t any pictures of me which has started my journey.
How many times my parents tried to acknowledge, on my behalf, that my love is not reciprocated; given time of peaceful circumstances, why would a child’s love for their biological parents would ever be questioned.
I want to play with your mind. So remember when we used to fix things; just like new.
Stranger; “Can’t you use scissors.”
Me; “We use our teeth.”
The thing is, which nobody tells you, is that when you go shopping for giants like myself, anything needs to be a little bit bigger than small.
My parents, the providers, would say to me; “We found you in the trash,” followed by mockery and mimicry in a strong French accent. “Our blood is running through your veins,” and they would stink in vain. “You grew up in my belly,” and they would look at each other bursting in laughter. “You are not my child,” words would be spat in my face, two inches away from my eyes. “You are not my child. I am not your mother. Go see your mother,” words would again be spat in my face, two inches away from my eyes. “You’re mixed up,” were repeated twice in laughter when I would share flashbacks of my birth in my mother’s arms with my father near standing still in the corner. My parents, the providers, would never provide an explanation of which my brain, some time on its own, tried to rewire; “Remember when you said that I am not your child. Why, why did you say that to me for,” and they left me—in silence.