2.29. The Stars Shine

This post gives me great joy to write. But it also has a deep rooted past. And so, we travel back to the first year I moved to Kansas.

Working for an in-home mental health care facility, I spent hours upon hours with a new set of people while our clients slept soundlessly in their beds. Between bed rotations, medicine distribution, and breathing checks…the staff would hang out in the living room and chit chat or play hours of card games. 

J and I sat in the living room for our first overnight shift together. We had eight hours to burn before our clients had to be woken for their daily activities…all we had was time to burn. He told me he’d had one girlfriend but that was it. And without skipping a beat, he divulged everything about his deepest secrets. He was gay. But his family had raised him Baptist and his father was a preacher; a man respected in the community for his devotion to God. J had tried being with a girl to “fix” himself. But it hadn’t worked. 

“So, have you come out to your family?”

J looked puzzled. “Why would I do that?”

He explained that he knew his feelings were wrong. There was no reason in coming out because he would never live that sinful life. He would never betray his God or his family. He would not burn in hell for the lust of the body. 

“So, you’re just going to be alone forever?”

He laughed at my “ignorance,” and explained that he wasn’t alone because he had Gods love. 

“But wouldn’t your God want you to be happy?”

He said he was but his eyes said otherwise. 

Fast forward more than a decade.

An attractive, Jesus loving hipster enters my world. I immediately lean on him for all of my Godly questions. But the world that we live in can’t understand why someone like him and someone like me would ever really talk. So the rumors started. I was trying to tempt him. I wanted to bring him over to the dark side. We were probably having secret kissing sessions when no one was looking.

And it pissed me off. Because no one knew the conversations we’d had. No one knew that we stood in a parking lot at 4am talking about his love for God. No one knew that he’d revealed, he too, had felt things for the same sex but couldn’t act upon them because of his love for his Lord. No one knew that I cried for this boy and told him the story of J. That my heart broke to see someone so amazing trapped by their own love…only to be left deprived of love.

A distance built between us and I will admit that I grew to dislike him immensely. I felt betrayed. How could he open his world to me in such a way and yet distance himself from me as if I were a fucking leper? I hadn’t judged him or told him what he felt was wrong. I had embraced him and he’d turned the other cheek.

I had a moment when I thought he wanted me to shun him for his revelations. When he wanted me to be like everyone else. That would have been easier. But I hadn’t and instead…I’d been thrown away like garbage. What a friendship, I thought.

The boy moved away. And I shouldn’t care.

But I am beyond happy for this boy. I have learned that in his move…the star found his puzzle piece, has grown even closer to his God in his new love, and has learned to be honest with himself and the world he aspired to change. I watch from a distance and I am elated to see pictures and posts of pure, genuine love. My tears were not in vain. Everything turned out the way it should have and someone who is truly a gift to this world now knows it’s possible. To love with your whole heart AND to be loved wholeheartedly.

When he became a star


1.178 – The (con)-Artist

“We’ll be reduced to bland subject matter, just to avoid embarrassment.” – The Writing Class

The fiction writer is a fictional artist

A recorder of the con; living in the con, breathing in the con, working the con and retelling it to unsuspecting ears.

From the crack of dawn until the setting of the sun, this life is a mound of clay – molded to the specifications of the story teller…the story maker.

Because the greatest truths and the greatest lies have not come from soldiers and martyrs, not the teachers or students but the artists. The artists of the con.

The mouth you feed. Filled with shit

The bible you read. The con made it.

The sky you see. Foundation laid.

The God within it. The story we made.

History is what we want you to know. The future is where we want you to go. The day is but the time to rise. The night is your impending demise. Because we’ve made the weather and decided whether you will know tomorrow…if the chapter is completed.

Defeated, sometimes we end on an ellipses that is meant to travel like sands of time……………..until the decline of interest in which we pick it up with a beat, a strike of the keys, demigods and pleas…sanction on screens and pages and repeated by drones we’ve hand plucked from the tomb of unsuspecting…canvases.

Because you are nothing unless I make you into my heroine. But your not the drug of this plot. Just the catalyst until I devour inspirations – presented on a platter, soaked in your tears. Which I made.

A league of extraordinary…liars. We breathe into life what your nimble mind couldn’t even imagine. We make tree’s resemble men and men resemble dirt and earth resemble the heart – pulsing and growing and dying and flowing

Into rivers created to sweep away poorly made paragraphs and half assed sentences lingering on the edge of the rocks, reaching out desperately to dead words from dead languages

quid solebat te mori

Because it is not in this segment, this chapter, this section of the trilogy. You last as long as the artist desires, as long as the con must continue. Because every bad thing that happens to you is for some audience to relate and to pity and to empathize and to say “damn, so glad that shit ain’t happenin’ to my ass.”

The air you breathe. We made it be.

The life you conceive. That’s thanks to me.

The dreams you chase. You follow my lead.

The regrets to erase. I give what you need.

Your government, your religion, your desires, your fantasies, your goals, your wonders exist solely because someone somewhere read something we left behind. The flame that makes people hungry, warm, passionate, assiduous. We left the seed that planted the tree that fed the fruit that made shit happen.

We create and then take. And you want us to. Spark up images of demons and defiled innocence, the goddess upon the mount and the mole in the hill, the sad man cradling his dying dog on the street with a sign that begs for food and the triumphant moments of autistic children learning and sharing and loving and knowing…something powerful. We create the bad, the good, the hideous and the microscopic images of perfection, speckled on a dark cloud, raining down upon you maybe once…twice in a lifetime.

That rain you will chase into a forest never seen and you will fight for a love you couldn’t possibly ever know. But you think you can. Because someone, somewhere…wrote about it. And left it on a parchment in the sand. For you. To find. To dream. To reach.

For the stars you cant kiss and the moon you cant touch and the sun you cant really feel because none of it is there. We are the magicians of the world, which is really just a box, a cubicle in a building that isn’t really a building but a tunnel of dirt. And in this tunnel, we are all still and blank and filled with nothing. We have no skin, no bones, no reflections but are the epitome of ghosts.

Until the artist comes. The artists come. The madmen. The delusional sirens projecting their hallucinations onto those tunnel walls, smearing the smudge into enough paint to cover your lifetime. Because nothing you know is yours. It is just another manipulation of ink upon a collection of notes. Your life is not yours, oh no.

This life.

Is just another sentence.

In the book of the Con


1.173 – A Memory

She sat across from me. We were talking about God, yet again. It was sunny out. It was warm. The porch I had so often walked across was now an island; a place I could not escape. I would have run away but my belly was full…swelling with the unborn I carried.

She cried. Her faces wrinkling, her eyes turning red. She stared at me as she pulled a drag on her cigarette. He remained silent beside me, as he always did when she spoke – such a passive gentle giant…such a fool.

I didn’t need to ask because I already knew where this was going. She whimpered through her tears. “You’re going to hell,” she said. I put my hands across my belly as if I were protecting my unborn from the heinous accusations being thrust at me. She sobbed, explaining that my unborn would meet the same fate. Because I did not believe. Because I denounced her deity. Because I did not believe.

This is the memory that keeps me up this evening. I have tossed and turned, tried to think of different things, tried to muster the energy tio add just a sentence to my June CampNaNoWriMo project. I cant. Because I don’t have it in me. I chose a topic that is foreign to me beyond compare. I choice to write about God in fiction because I thought it would be good for me, interesting, thought provoking. But I have come to a realization. I just don’t care. I find peace in my life when I am proactive…when I am working and providing for my son. I am tired but I am happy.

I reflect on that moment when I foolishly looked to someone for enlightenment. To the time when I believed that someone could teach me how to find peace and clarity. To a time when I ignored the ugly moments and stood in shame quietly while I hoped for redemption. To the moment when I held my hands over the swell of my belly and said “I don’t believe that,” instead of a big “fuck you.”

Because that is what she deserved. That’s what anyone who believes an unborn child is damned to hell because of the fault/beliefs of their parents deserves. I am ashamed that I have wasted almost a decade of my life attempting to push myself into a mold to appease sketchy people and their convictions. I will not pen another sentence of this novel until I decide where I stand. Period. I will not compromise my feelings, thoughts, emotions, and convictions in the hopes that I will fit into something I do not understand. I will not sacrifice my sanity and stability for anything or anyone who will attempt to demean me in order to overpower me.

She said me and my baby were going to hell. What she failed to realize was…I was already there. The journey I am on right now is the road to help me get out of that hell. The hell she helped to create. The hell I will never return to. The hell my child will not be subjected to. Because I said so. Period.

1.161 – Here We Go Again

Seems like it’s that time again. No, it’s not November and yet I’m prepping for another go at NaNoWriMo. Apparently, the summer time has become another opportunity for writers to get their work on the page via CampNaNoWriMo.

I participated in the November 2011 challenge and finished the month with a little over 56K. I’ve considered editing the piece I worked on, Dream Catcher, in the months that followed…to no avail. I thought I would do a rewrite but that idea went out the window as well.

Nonetheless, I’m sitting here with my notebook, scribbling down ideas. Funny thing is, the idea I feel strongest about is the one that focuses on religion. Yep, I said it. Religion. I think it’s an interesting concept and one I’ve personally never seen done before though I’m sure someone has covered it in some book I’ve never read. It’s coming from my perspective so…yeah.

June 1st is the start date, although there is a second round of participation starting August 1 – think I can write two books this summer? We shall see.

Either way, I’m excited. I feel like I got a lot done in the month of November and felt most proud as a writer…even though no one has read Dream Catcher and I’m hating it to the point of not ever wanting to edit it and thrusting it in the trash. BUT just getting my work on the page is a huge breakthrough for me. So I’m willing to have a go at it again.

No expectations. Just words. May The Muse remain close.

1.155 – Yep, She Said Abstinence

Does abstinence have to equal loneliness?

This is the question at hand for the evening. In my current life situation, I am in no place to deal with any sort of physical encounters. That’s just being honest about things. Encounters of the flesh simply complicate matters and if my life isn’t complicated enough as it is…just trust me – it is. So no need to add fuel to the fire, right?

I’m also going through some deeper spiritual considerations. Religion – not quite. Spiritual Soul Searching – Yes. With that in mind, it’s not exactly a prime time to fog my world with lustful acts, thoughts or encounters. If I’m really putting all of this into consideration, I need to do so genuinely and with a clear perspective.

Now trust, I don’t have guys banging on my door. Ugly duckling syndrome makes that a non-factor BUT that doesn’t mean I don’t wonder. About the future. About relationships. About connections. About the possibility of meeting someone that makes me want to love again. Even not so pretty girls get lucky sometimes.

And what happens IF that does occur. I’m in that “I want to hold hands, cuddle and kiss” phase. Meanwhile, guys my age want sex. Or the promise of sex. But what if that’s something I can’t give. Not because I don’t want to. But if I do become serious about this spiritual journey…I have to pursue it with my whole heart. And that includes no sex.

I no longer believe in the union of marriage. Not for everyone. I just don’t think I am meant to know that type of relationship…in any way. Yes, I sound like the typical scorned woman getting ready to do the divorce dance. But I genuinely feel like it’s just not meant for me. But if that’s the case, and sex outside of marriage is something that will disrupt my spiritual growth…does that mean I’m meant to be without companionship of any kind forever?

Intimacy doesn’t necessarily mean sex but what guy…at 28…wants to JUST cuddle, JUST kiss, JUST hold hands? Virginal boys who want to marry…maybe. But I can’t give that end result either. Do I think anyone can change my mind? Not even a little.

This whole spiritual situation is fucking with my head far more than I can explain. I don’t expect anyone to understand any of the above. It’s just a rambling session from a girl that doesn’t want to be alone forever but also from a girl that wants to know she is more than just a body to be had. I want that part in the middle. And I want someone to savor that part with me without expectation of the next step. I want patience.

I want something I may never have.

Fuck me running.

1.147 – Kreative Blogger Award

Today has been a fun day in my writing world. After completing my revision for Did You See Her 2.0, I received a great amount of new readers and followers. I took a break from reading, blogging and tweeting to pack in some much needed food. To my surprise, I returned to the computer screen to find a wonderful shout-out and blog nod. Much gratitude to allthoselittlethingsilike for nominating me for the Kreative Blogger Award. It is unexpected and yet, so very much appreciated.

As for the award, the rules are the following:

  • Thank the blogger who gave me the award and provide a link.
  • List 7 interesting things about myself that my readers might find interesting.
  • Nominate 7 other bloggers, provide links and let them know.

Seven interesting things…man, that’s a lot. Well, here goes nothing.

1) When I’m home alone, I sing and dance as if I’m performing for an audience. (NO ONE will ever see me do this).

2) I set my alarm for two hours before I actually intend to wake up and hit snooze to my hearts content. (I am still NEVER on time to ANYTHING).

3) I hate eating in the dark, which is one reason I rarely go to the movie theater.

4) I have about 7 different styless of penmanship and each one depends on my mood.

5)  I performed Native American shawl dancing throughout high school

6) I cannot memorize any of my own poetry. I’ve tried . I seriously cant.

7) I have two tattoos and have had a total of twelve piercings.

Okay…lets be honest…none of that was interesting AT ALL.  But who cares. I’d rather pay the honor forward and shout-out seven creative minds and their Kreative Blogs.

Mew Tube For writing a blog on “clit lit”

Matrifocal Point For spreading awareness

Laz Freedmans Poetry Blog For embracing simplicity

Brain Candy For telling it like it is

A Spoonful of Suga For tackling real issues with such wit

A Writers Process For being candid about the process

Rediscovering A Stolen Life  For brutal honesty

Teacups and Ashtrays For writing about a genuine love

Yeah, I broke the rules by nominating eight bloggers. But that’s how I roll so you’ll just have to deal. No matter the topic – we all share the common bond of utilizing this busy web of nonsense to project our voices to the masses. These voices inspire me to speak and to listen.

1.145 – Did You See Her 2.0

This is not about being caught between a rock and a hard place. This is about those that freely violated the soft space of my mind. A cerebral vortex of shame and stains left behind where my imagination was supposed to develop. Instead it’s homicidal sperm, that’s spermicidal fluid, sent to ruin the chambers of this tomb because I’m the walking dead. A corpse painted semi-pretty so you cant see all the stains they left upon me.

This one says I’ll always feel broken and this one is a self-deprecating spot that has soaked into the very core of my being. This one shouts how much it still hurts and these record the number of times my demise was a real consideration. Up for deliberation is my worth, my beauty and the lack thereof. Wondering how many can see the target and how many will attempt to score. Because I was never a women to caress but a child to molest and a sleeping beauty who woke up to a pillow on her face. Disgraced in explaining that I’m not quite sure if it was rape because he was my boyfriend but I didn’t want to.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

This is general and this is specific. This is for every man and for no man at all. This is the rage of a gender and the plea of a woman. This is the voice of a tear and the echo of a child’s feet. This is from me to you, from us to them. This is for mothers with sons and fathers with daughters. This is for every person who wants to feel beautiful and for every person who took away that chance.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

This is for the Queens of the world. In every shade and every shape. For the scarred and the scared. For the bold and the wise. For the revolutionary and the traditionalist. For the swell of your breasts as you feed our kin and hide in closed quarters in shame. For the stories of your tongue, the stories of your hips, your eyes, your hands. This is for your battles lost and those you’ve yet to win. But you will. This is for the eccentric thoughts in your mind, your hopes and dreams.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

This is for our sons, our future Kings. Know that your manhood is not measured by your dick and what you do with it but the heart you so genuinely share. Love her and know her and speak her name with honey on your lips. Tell her what this world could be and shield her from what it really is. Give her a piece of you and nurture every exhale she shares. Use your hands to wipe away the tears versus inflicting them. Kiss away the bruises versus gifting them. Call her name – call her name sweetly so she will come to you with eager anticipation. Remind her, every day until the end of days, that she is your equal. Your matching puzzle piece. Your mirrored image of hope.

Do you believe in God sir? Well, if you do…”God took a rib from Adam to create Eve…so she would walk beside him. He did not take a bone from his heel for her to be beneath him.” Ask your God to clarify.

This is for our daughters, the soldiers of capturing the voice. Where we have failed, you will triumph and persevere. You will flee from cages of insecurity, you will dance freely and know your body and express your individuality with certainty and conviction. You will not be his slut or his whore or his conquest. You will not be his angel captured on a harpoon, dangling off cliffs edge while he gloats of his barbaric instincts. You will soar. You will taste the stars and make love on clouds and touch sands of far off places and sway in the eclipse of time into sunsets of days yet created.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

Does it count if it’s marital, family, a female? I’m a woman so you take my pain as fact but if I were a man screaming of my violations, you’d be thinking “well, how the fuck is that” but sadly it is, not something to be dismissed because it’s happening right now. And some wife somewhere is saying “please don’t” and some husband is saying “what’s mine is mine”

This is for that man…you know who you are. Not under one name or one face but one type underneath it all. You have tainted rich soil, conquered and pillaged sacred plains, delved into the deepest corners of unexplored caverns and declared ownership. As if her pussy was property. You have created superiority in your name and claimed sanction in corners of the world, yet you are everywhere. You will tower over the beauties of this land and profess false prophecies of a God like stature because of your dick.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

You will hide behind money, power and muscle mass. You will press her body down and take what is not yours. You will crush her bosom and pierce her lips with your own as you inject anguish into her every crevice. You will rape her mind far longer than her body. You will ravish her in dreams and eat away at her until she is skin and bones and bones and skin and skin and skin and scarred and ruined and pained and lost. You will shadow her eyes and teach her that this is it; she will die today. No man will love her, hold her, cradle her, and forgive away every flaw upon her name. You will stomp out her light, snuff the candle and make a film about it.

This is about the bruises left unseen, scouring my skin but I’m still unclean.  On the inside. Was I too weak, too soft, too vulnerable and how much of this was my fault. But how does a child ask for it? She doesn’t and yet we question a girls slut rating to deem if there was probably cause probably cuz we are too busy telling our girls to clean up their shit instead of teaching our sons not to be rapists. And with each new agenda, we pretend our offenders are just men and mistake perversion for homosexuality. Because this isn’t about sex or gender or orientation. This is about a sick stimulation, a war waged on an unsuspecting country.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

She is my future, my past. She is me and no one I know. He is every man I have ever met and every man I will avoid. He is what I will teach my son not to be. And in some other realm, I see her and she is free. She is without shackles and without daggers. She owns her essence and is euphoric in splendor of possibility. And there will be one, one to defy all others. One to touch her cheek and melt away those stains. He will whisper and elevate. She will taste the salt of tears seasoned with wonder.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

Be a light to the woman you know. Be that man. The one I know exists in dreams. For her, I will write him into life. He will touch one. Just one. She will be his country and he will be her soldier. And this moment, this one lost moment will not be in vain. My prince will be a King someday. And she will know beauty again. Whoever she is…she will know and never have to.

1.144 – Heavenly Earth

Sitting on my lunch break, I read an article by Jon Meacham entitled Heaven Can’t Wait – Why rethinking the hereafter could make the world a better place and it got me thinking. So much so that I had to reread it. And then I had to read it again, only this time, with a highlighter in hand. And then I had to give a copy of it to someone I know…because I had to share this…whatever this was.

Meacham starts his article with a synopsis of Heaven Is For Real by Lynn Vincent…a book I’ve never read. He quotes John Blanchard, founder of Planet Rock Youth Ministries…a ministry I know nothing about. He talks about N.T. Wright,  Billy Graham, and Stephen Hawking…people I know nothing about. Realistically, this article…in a magazine I’ve never read…should be of no significance or interest to my silly little mind. However, this article…in a magazine that I’ve never read yells at me. Forces me to think.

“Heaven isn’t just a place you go-heaven is how you live your life.”

“…people who are motivated by heaven are also people motivated to make a positive difference in the world.”

“”Seeing heaven as the world beyond this one can offer powerful comfort, particularly in life’s most dire circumstances.”

“Gods love…should inspire the religious to open their arms more often than they point fingers. Heaven thus becomes, for now, the reality one creates in the service of the poor, the sick, the enslaved, the oppressed.”

“Our entrance into heaven has nothing to do with how good we are; what matters is how good Jesus is, and what He did for us.”

I’m just a girl. A girl from the Bronx. A girl who’s gone through her struggles and in turn…sits in front of this keyboard with one million questions and zero answers. I’m just a girl who hopes to be better and doesn’t know how. I’m just a lost soul dreaming of something beautiful…hoping it’s attainable for someone like me.

After reading this article, I asked myself…what is heaven? Where is heaven? I will not consider what the world tells me. I will not consider the images painted upon walls and on the pages of old books. What is heaven? Where is heaven?

Heaven is seeing that glimmer in my sons eyes. Heaven is laughter. Heaven is a warm hug. Heaven is feeling loved. Heaven is feeling understood. Heaven is music, art, spoken word. Heaven is understanding. Heaven is giving. Heaven is the unconditional. It is what we search for every single day…in everything that we do…in every encounter we have.

I want heaven. For myself. For my son. For my best friend. For my father. I want heaven for people I don’t even know. But how do you reach something that defies all sense of logic? Religion makes no sense to me. There was a phone call between God and I at some point in my life but the call got disconnected.

He may…in some way…be trying to call me back. But I don’t know if I’m willing to answer that call.

I don’t know if God exists. Without a shadow of a doubt…no, I can’t say that I know. But do I know heaven exists? Yes, I do. It’s not a crown of jewels and a palace made of gold. It’s in our works. How we nurture our fellow man. How we inspire our kin. This is heaven. This is where I want to be.

1.141 – Burning

My mother left. I hate authority.

My marriage failed. I hate relationships.

My best friend died. I avoid friendships.

My father died. I avoid love.

Any attempt to fight the inevitable is a losing battle. I’ve learned this lesson at least four times in my existence and probably much more than that. Some would say that this life is worth living, that I have so much to look forward to. But the sand is flowing through the hourglass and the the tears flood away the granules of salt destined to count the seconds until my demise. No, I will not live forever. And someday, my son will mourn me. Someday, my loved ones…the few I have left…they will be as tormented as I am right now.

How do you grieve? How long does it take? My mother gave up on me 27 years ago. Is 27 years enough? My marriage failed 2 years ago. Is 2 years enough? My best friend died 15 months ago. Is 15 months long enough? My father died 8 months ago. Is 8 months enough? I mean, when the fuck does it stop? When does it become okay? Does it ever? I want someone to tell me when! How! I need to know this shit is happening for a fucking reason. Cuz I’ve got nothing. I’ve got no fight in me.

I don’t trust anyone. I hate people who treat me like I’m expendable. I hate people who are nice to me. I hate people who think they know me. I hate people who really do see the damage despite my act. I hate people who want me to be “on” all the time. I hate people who assume it takes one. I hate walking alone. I hate silence. I hate wondering. I hate never knowing. I hate being so scared.

I want my father back. I want my best friend back. I want my hope back. I want a clean slate. A fresh start. I want to know my purpose. I am an aimless vessel, writhing in the flames of uncertainty.

1.135 – Blind Sight

Can you see me?

Hidden behind the masquerade of “I know what I’m doing,”

Underneath the layers of “What the fuck you looking at?”

I’m the most confident self-esteem deficient individual you will ever meet

The loudest shy girl you will ever know

And the angriest happy bitch this side of ‘who the hell cares.’

If only to find a blind man

To see me for what I want him to see 

Versus the damaged goods I truly am.

She’s that emo chick stuck somewhere in the middle of trying to forget who she was, hating who she is and wishing she could fast forward and be the girl she always dreamed in dreams beneath stained sheets surrounded by sirens and falling plaster in the gutter.

She’s that sorry chick hoping for tomorrow but stricken with fear because tomorrow always brings phone calls, which equate to death, and she can’t take another loss right about now.

She’s that vibrant chick that snuffs out her own light before the glances begin because it’s easier to believe that this is all a chose instead of what it really is.

She’s that pissed off chick that hates with all of her heart and all of her soul and all of her every breath because hate is justified and hate is her religion and hate is her God and hate has gotten her this far and hate is all she knows and hate is what she was born from and hate is how she will die.

She’s that dumb chick that can pretend she’s smart because she knows how to read people and manipulate them into divulging what they want to hear without uttering a word.

She’s that riding solo type of chick that pushes until their aint nothing left to push and the wind blows away all of her tears that no one can see because no one stuck around.

Can you see me?

Hidden behind the masquerade of “I know what I’m doing,”

Underneath the layers of “What the fuck you looking at?”

I’m the most confident self-esteem deficient individual you will ever meet

The loudest shy girl you will ever know

And the angriest happy bitch this side of ‘who the hell cares.’

If only to find a blind man

To see me for what I want him to see 

Versus the damaged goods I truly am.