Your father’s lust and absence has left you an inheritance of uncontrollable tendencies.

One, of always being the other woman.

Two, how you pine like a thirsty garden fighting infertile soil and wicked weather.

The way your mother needs.

How she stays.

The same way her mother did.

The way their love reeks of gangrene and their sacrifice turns to pus at men’s feet.


Your home is filled with guests you serve and entertain well.

Yet, they have not come for you.

Mid tea sips you ask to be excused,

call the man who you have been told is your father,

tell him he has visitors waiting for him at your front door,

and they’re already on their way out.

You realize this cleansing is going to take



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