A slow death, but at least more predictable than the onslaught of the entire pack at once. A Baby Boy Allmon made of gametes from a commercial artist and a secretary, Told goodbye before knowing the meaning of hello. Honorable intent assumed. Bottles don't hug back. They say I cried frequently, at least until I could be trained to scream silently.
Soul screaming, like fine wine, becomes more sophisticated with age.
Yes'm, no ma'am. Awards Poor boundaries. The right to agree or object. The desperation for one glimpse at anyone genetically like me. The willingness to bankrupt myself for one hour of honest conversation with The two people who gave me life.