I shouldn’t have had to relive any of it for him. I know that. But it just rolled off my tongue like too much water from the hose in summertime. It’s heartbreaking how trauma has its own tragic, jagged flow, like a scripted horror.
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He doesn’t even acknowledge me and I’m the one who said the thing. I’m the one who laid all his stuff bare in front of his two other children who were either too young or not even born to remember him at his worst. Long before he became a grandfather and started doing everything he could to make up with God.
I’m the one who just leveled the shrine the family built to him.
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God’s in this gift I’ve had since I was a kid. He’s in every note I sing and every step I dance. He’s in every prayer we pray before those curtains open and every breath of gratitude I breathe when the house lights come up.
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It’s not the fact that I’m pretty or whatever. I got the job because I’m good at my job.
Yeah, I understand pretty privilege, ok? I get that being high yellow definitely doesn’t hurt. You don’t have to explain it to me. I’m not stupid. But I am damn good at my job, you hear me? And it’s just my time. That’s why I got it. It ‘s my TIME, ok?
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Hey, writer… You’re an artist. I know that sometimes you get caught up in the rat race…
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