icon caret-left icon caret-right instagram pinterest linkedin facebook twitter goodreads question-circle facebook circle twitter circle linkedin circle instagram circle goodreads circle pinterest circle

The Fuel


Further than the past, all the way to the inception of my birth, I realized I wanted to become a writer. It was a calling since I was the cells of my Mother's womb. Then life came and it came hungry and greedy, fueled with jealousies because of my opportunities, especially in the United States. Every instant of my life felt watched with a camera by the CIA, with their men lurking to screen and critique my every move, that for every detail and every chance I had, I was to surrender it to them, and for their chosen families only to pursue. The opportunities I was bestowed from God felt stolen. Through bullying, through sabotage, from so called friends, and so called boyfriends, they felt the same, hateful and vengeful. 


These days, I felt like a folktale, of story of how I was once a hopeful girl who wanted to pursue a destiny I was called to do, but the path were ripped apart by those men and women who felt they deserved more than me. I felt the stories I wrote down were useless, and often times scanned through and thrown into the trash bin, because I had no more luck in me, since they were stolen and robbed out of me. The blessings inside my soul that were set apart by God were stabbed through my ribs, and even true love will no longer be in my destiny. 


I await the days when people snickered to themselves during their tea times at bookstores, telling stories of how I was once a frequent patron of the same spot, before I ended my own life because of the abuses I felt from others who stole too much from my life. I would be a ghost, flying in the midst of them, the enemies and the compassionate who would help but it was too late. My life would be a folktale of who I once was, and who I became but the world was to brutal to love me just as I was.


Just write.

Be the first to comment