Lisa Marie Davis, my mother, was the best woman to ever exist to me, to my younger brothers, Malachi, Titus, and Justus, my father, Michael Jr. my grandfather, David Sr. her younger brother, David Jr. and many more. She had my siblings and I at a young age, and did what she could. She was a strong woman, mother, lover, daughter, and sister. She was dealing with a lot of stuff behind the beautiful curtain of a smile. Four kids, her ill mother, her toxic environment and relationships, her trauma. She was juggling a lot of things but continued to push through it with a caked face filled with makeup, smiles and glossy eyes. I faintly remember times I caught her crying. A halfway sewn heart, old bandaids and rubbing alcohol is what she was, but even with a makeup-smeared face and liquid eyes, she was beautiful. She was strong. She was my mother. She was my hero. My hero. In fiction, with all the trauma and shit she went through, she no doubt would’ve made the perfect villain. Broken, driven by pain and anger and regret and guilt, but still had a soft heart. I don’t know how she did it. How she managed to remain a hero. Sure, she did her fair share of bad, but everyone has a past. That day. That cloudy, wet, gray, colorless day. The moment I walked into that room, and looked at her, her hair, blonde and ends faded purple, her make up, black mascara and eyeliner, her slightly gray, pink lips, no longer smiling. She was vibrant, so colorful and lively, yet there was no life left in her body, in her lungs. The world reclaimed the air her beautiful, damaged lungs had stolen. I’ve never seen anything or anyone who could wear death so beautifully. She looked expressionless, yet calm and relaxed, like death was her peace, and life was her hell. I wonder if I could wear it as beautiful as her. 

Thank you all for donating and playing a part in my mother’s journey. I wish all of you well,

                                               - 𝘔𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘩 𝘔. 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘮𝘴