Childhood
As I got older people tried to paint this narrative of me. And I a guess since my childhood home was left behind after being riddled with bullet holes, it’s easy to paint a new picture of me. Hollywood is soon becoming Pembroke Pines. And my block, which I am sure I will leave soon as well, is being bought up and renovated, painting that picture of a woman who has had a privileged life is easy. But that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I remember one day my mom made this post of spaghetti and hot dogs. It had tomato paste in it. It was all types of yummy. But it was a lot of us. And We grew up poor. Although that fact is being changed everyday. But anywho when my mom made this pasta she served each of us a bowl. And I got my bowl. Got my fork. Tasted the food and went to the back of the house and cried. I wanted more but I knew she couldn’t give me more. And if I asked that would make her only feel bad. So I wiped the tears from my eyes and ate the pasta and then licked ...