Hello. Goodbye. Go fuck yourself beautiful. I want to tell you nothing. But I want you to feel something. The shame of being beautiful-ugly, fat-fit, hairy-exotic-homely fuck. Fuck you inevitable, fuck you future, fuck you destiny, (How many more times can I say fuck? I don’t fucking know.) The darkest part of myself is the one that feels. That goddamn, emotional bitch.
My mind is a hot mess, pungent, strong, and smelling like grandma on a hot day. Smelling of tight silk and body odor. Keep it together. People depend on your confidence, but it’s neuroticism. They tell me I am so thoughtful. A blessed curse because I cannot help but think of everything. I am overly observant and wildly underspoken. I do not let people see my fear when I have a PTSD panic attack at 3:02 A.M. having to check, once again, all the locks on my doors and windows. People do not see my knuckles whitten as I sit in traffic realizing that I forgot to put my shoes away in their designated location, and that I will be thinking about it all day. And that, I will march straight to my shoes when I cross my threshold at home without stopping to show affection to the one I love. People don’t see the serenity and peace I feel, the zen like mastery of emptiness, when my robotic vacuum removes all the tiny, singular strands of hair that wedge between my toes, and stick to the soles of my feet, a reminder that my house is not clean enough
not clean enough
never clean enough
not clean enough
People do not see that I am scarred by a vulnerability once exposed
a naked soul that must always be clothed
because it is a messy thing,
psychotic and crazy,
and you won’t be the first to witness the wound under this armor
and you are not going to like it
because it still hasn’t healed quite right.