Dear LORD,

thank you for sending me a publisher, an editor, for righting every wrong.   Adult survivors of severe abuse are crying out for answers, for understanding.  My inner core has never stopped screaming why.  Why didn't some one stop her? Could she be stopped?  Why was she so successful for so long? Why was my mother a savage sadist? Why did she refuse repentance?

When I read through the Bible I find so many answers; pride, unnatural affection, lasciviousness, envy, jealousy, witchcraft.   No matter, bottom line it was self will.  Martha did live the life she wanted.  While Martha cried the loudest about her inability to find a decent man in the black race,  she knew she was a demon, an extremely sadistic whore.

Martha's life was predicable.  Once she smashed that puppy between two bricks as a child the dye was cast for her to become an abomination, a complete succubus.  Martha loved it, derived sick sexual carnal pleasure from inflicting pain.  It is all clear to me now.  All of us carry scars from our  third degree  "accidental" burns.

So much unexplained pain.  Martha you were unreal.  Of course  I remember you slamming my hand in the car door.  Praise GOD I had very quick reflexes and you only managed to smash my finger tips flat.  Did I lose all my fingernails? I can't remember.  I do remember how you refused to comfort me, to so much as give me a cube of ice.  Denied angrily that you did it and told me I should keep my "muthfucking black ass nigger hand out of your way."

I am not going to bother you too much today Martha.  There is only so much pain I can review in my mind with collapsing.  I do want you to know that you made me so ashamed of you.  I keep blaming witchcraft and GOD keeps telling me, no it was you.  You wanted to be a horrid whore, you demanded to compete with GOD and attempt to defeat him with your homemade witchcraft.

Remember when I was five, in the bed with you and your buzzard second husband?  Well, I remember.  I remember his calloused huge hands pulling down my panties and his attempting to penetrate my tiny vagina  with his fingers.  I jumped up and fled.  You laughed!  I still hate you for that shit!

Worse, I remember that same man lost his entire Army paycheck gambling and you pistol whipped him, beat him into a bloody pulp, then turned around, called the military police on him.  You had him arrested and laughed.

Still worse, he tried to appease you by robbing the dead.  He went out on an ambulance call, a young soldier was DOA (dead on arrival).  Your "husband" proudly robbed him.  He was a young soldier, it was payday, he was carrying all of his entire paycheck in his pocket. I remember how happy you were waiving that blood stained money.

Martha that was your lack of faith.  That was you two buzzards leaning to your own understanding.

A man sexually molests your little girl, right beside you and you find it funny, actually hilarious.  The same man doesn't bring you "your money" and you pistol whip him like you were his pimp.  You were his pimp.  You were a pimp Martha, another Iceberg Slim.  Yes, you pimped quite successfully for eighty-seven years but you had to "left here".  You left your funky scent.  It is still strong, but I'm healing.

Praise the LORD!