RL: Boom-Klak-Boom-Klak

I am the last of my kind.

“On and on and on…”

I am the only one with my lying last name.

Someone I thought was close to me that ran like she does because I got goofy got farther from me because I can’t keep anything good close said to me “I’ve found that when writing hurts it’s better to stop writing.”

And so. Like Eve, I pick the Fig,  The Fig, the Apple the goddamned fruit the goddamned fruit that brings the Fall…

I pluck it, I suck it, and my world is alive again.

I am alive again because she gave me my words back.


It wasn’t just her.

There is the wise one, the one who might die before I because of her choices (and don’t get me wrong, I’d give my Life up to keep her on this Earth, and am still hoping she remains to teach long after I am dust)  who kept gently pushing.


I am the last of my kind.

I write because it hurts. I write because it heals. Me, at least. And the hurt….hurts….trust. Because when the words pour out there is a point when I sob….and I have sobbed many times in writing truth and writing the “story” I’ve begun with my grandmother. It’s…fictional because I was never told the whole truth. Just segments. But do trust, when you recognize Me? That’s my truth.

My right arm and the scars will prove it.

I write because I can’t help but hope to hell that maybe some of my words will…be heard…and maybe, understood. And…damn fo0l that I am, maybe help. I’ve no idea how, but I hold hope in my hands, because sometimes that’s all I feel I have left.

Boom. Klak.

Catch a Four-Leafed Clover.

I am the last of the lies. But I hope I can continue to tell the…story…as it is in my head…of why I Am.

That’s all I can ask for.



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