klo

And defense masks
No one was allowed in

His written words were my scripture
He drew the best three dimensional pictures
This was how he felt heard
what he didn’t say aloud he spoke with pen fused to pad , the keybored a fire under his hand
We all thought he was mad
But no,
just wounded
Heart battered he couldn’t hone in
on what truly happened to him as kid
Being native was a curse
The people who worshiped the earth
He couldn’t help he was birthed
Just wanted love and not hurt

His heritage beat from his bones
He was handed normal clothes and told to just forget his true home
Never getting love or affection only reciving constant crippling rejection
He reverted
and became a self internalizing hermit
Which cemented his impeccable wit
his mother’s pet name for him was “twit”

And when I was young I inherited it thinking “what is a twit” and wishing nan wasn’t so strict
She belittled me and told me my cousins were better even as a kid I didn’t get her
Couldn’t believe dad had to call her mother
I grew up with resentments that I didn’t really get
till I got older and wiser and looked backed in true horror of the childhood endured by my father