To: L.R.

Why is our focus thousands of miles away?

Why do we overlook our own backyard hooligans for caste systems on another continent?

How backwards. How ironic. Cowardly, really.

We will only help the faceless, nameless crowds that believe we are a blessing. Reaching out in a place where people know you, grew up with you, no one wants to do that. It’s uncomfortable, God forbid.

Believing is not supposed to be in your comfort zone. There’s a reason they call it a leap of faith, babygirl. I realize Jesus was not welcome in his hometown, but who will minster then?

Tell me who put you in charge. Show me what you’re actually doing, or you may as well be Archangel or Loquo. You make me want to scream. Cry. Shout. You can move your house, baptize your family, pray until your hands are blistered and your knees are bruised, but it will not change who you are to me.

What you took form me, how you clutched with grubby hands my dirty secret, did nothing to help. Exchanged a secret of your own like some fucked up barter. No help. No worry. Just a wry smile like sorority sisters after a blackout party.

I don’t want to be your sister, or your friend. I don’t want shitty mentoring over knockoff Indian food.

I want real and it’s not here.


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