Lovely home

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.

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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.


In this world there are people who hate you so much, your guts—so bad, so sickeningly awful—that they actually act in such a way that may make you believe that they like you.


Look at this finger and come here, smell it it’s clean, now let me tell you a secret; “In every neighborhood in the whole world we all know who the hoes are—and I am not one of them.”