Bloodline

He had a heavy hand and along with that his words slashed deeper than bone. She was nobody special just like the other nine siblings. His fits of fists never showed mercy, he was blinded by blackness unknown to anyone. Despite his disease, his calloused ways molded her gentle soul into cheap leather. Each day, she grew to fear him, but it made her stronger.

Her childhood came in different colors and bruises. She was filtered through an old world generation where obedience was the word according to god. Her father, a soldier for the militia of Catholicism, instilled a vengeance for pain and suffering. In time, her sadness was comforted with the open arms of hate. As a child, like the roots of a banyan, she grew exactly where she was planted.

“One can spend a life time spindling thread, but never make fabric.”

She sat on the Bay Area Rapid Transit among the cart of stoic faces, she stared down at her growing belly that bore hostage the innocence of pure love. She had reached the 20 week mark. The halfway point. The movements of life fluttered her insides like wild african butterflies on a sweltering spring day. She harbored only good intentions for the future. Her father had withered in age, and his violent grip is a five o’clock shadow of yesterday. It was a long time ago, when that chapter in her life had been auctioned off to the highest bidder in trade for forgiveness. She closed her eyes and made silent promises that life is cruel, but beautiful. He was her father and the grandfather of her offspring. She settled into the grave that blood was blood, but her blood wasn’t poison. In her belly only love was being resurrected from a heart with too much soul.

This is Shellie living life according to her own bible back to you Bob at the studio.