Grenada

“That was really good, I liked that,” he stops himself feeling profound, even I was in a small state of amusement and shock. He stops the conversation that’s lasted the last fifteen minutes and looks at me saying, “What the real point of this whole talk is to know that you’re not being abandoned”.

If no one else would wean me off, I’d have to do it myself. I know the feeling of being abandoned and neglected, this isn’t that feeling. This feels right, no matter the knots in my mothers stomach. “You’re not going to be able to make it”, she says, blasting the last two decades of her parenting into shrapnel, like an F1 grenade thrown inside a flimsy bunker. Pieces of rock, dirt, ammunition, flesh and blood are landing all around as I sat on the corner of the bed. The sound of clangs and tings and splats and thuds as the raining debris lands all around us. Conversational Hijacking has occurred, I have a bomb.

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