I haven't seen my mother in, oh shit, four years. I remember I had gotten up early that morning. It was my birthday, and momma always put out my presents on the kitchen counter for me to find when I got up.
When I woke up, something just wasn't right. I went to pee and then wash my face, thinking that maybe she had planned something really special since this was an important birthday for me, but I wasn't hearing noise, no voices, not a sound from anything.
I walked into the kitchen and saw the envelope. My name was scrawled across the face of it, like it had been done in a hurry. I ripped it open. It was one of those pull out cards that announced what a wonderful day the recipient would have. I started pulling out the message, seeing my message:
H A P P Y A N N I V E R S A R Y
That was the day I turned 13.
That was the first day I started raising myself.
I think of that day often. I think of it every time I get up on the pole. I see it behind my closed eyes every time a john is licking my face and telling me how beautiful I am. I think of it every time some Christian minister walks in the club, trying to put his "Jesus is coming and you're going to hell" pamphlet in my hand and saying girl you can do better for yourself than this.
I want to yell, "I have already been to hell, but someone else sent me there, and nothin else can be worse than that."
But I don't. Because that same minister, that shepherd of lost lambs, that emissary of a so called higher being, comes back in two hours with dark sunglasses on his face, and makes my rent for a month. And sometimes, if he has gotten an especially full plate of tithes the week before, two month's.
Today is my birthday. I am not old enough to vote. I cannot legally drink, and I cannot sign any type of contract without a parent, but I am alive without having one.
This is the day I turn seventeen.
When I woke up, something just wasn't right. I went to pee and then wash my face, thinking that maybe she had planned something really special since this was an important birthday for me, but I wasn't hearing noise, no voices, not a sound from anything.
I walked into the kitchen and saw the envelope. My name was scrawled across the face of it, like it had been done in a hurry. I ripped it open. It was one of those pull out cards that announced what a wonderful day the recipient would have. I started pulling out the message, seeing my message:
H A P P Y A N N I V E R S A R Y
That was the day I turned 13.
That was the first day I started raising myself.
I think of that day often. I think of it every time I get up on the pole. I see it behind my closed eyes every time a john is licking my face and telling me how beautiful I am. I think of it every time some Christian minister walks in the club, trying to put his "Jesus is coming and you're going to hell" pamphlet in my hand and saying girl you can do better for yourself than this.
I want to yell, "I have already been to hell, but someone else sent me there, and nothin else can be worse than that."
But I don't. Because that same minister, that shepherd of lost lambs, that emissary of a so called higher being, comes back in two hours with dark sunglasses on his face, and makes my rent for a month. And sometimes, if he has gotten an especially full plate of tithes the week before, two month's.
Today is my birthday. I am not old enough to vote. I cannot legally drink, and I cannot sign any type of contract without a parent, but I am alive without having one.
This is the day I turn seventeen.
hooooo. dark.
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