December 29, 2013

It was always between the fact that we never had enough money or beds to sleep in. My daddy was a pill popper and my mommy…well, I didn't even know if she was alive. Each house we coasted from had a new obstacle laying on the door mat. It was either the mom was drugged up or the dad was sleeping with every girl he could lay his hands on, but the last one we stayed with changed everything. She wasn’t beautiful and she didn’t have any kids, but she was wise beyond her years. She would wrap me tight in her arms like her mom did before her mother was barbarically murdered when she was only eight years old. Our closeness filled my melancholic heart with a sense of a family that I forever longed for. I could feel our time together starting to deteriorate because daddy and her voice started to raise to their outside voices every time I wasn’t around, but she made it her business to hold me one more time before my daddy pried me from her hands. The day my daddy pried me from her hands was the day when she taught me to never be vulnerable to a man to hurt me, but she never told me why because she kept stumbling over the word hurt. Just as my daddy laid his hands on my wrist, I broke through my curiosity and I finally found the courage to ask if a man had hurt her, and her eyes became the Nile and everything flowed downhill from there.