In this life I have doubted so much, overstated importance where it was not deserved. Remained in a state of underwhelm to ensure I am not considered zealous. Coy and boastful. A hateful lover. Trying to find the balance between proactivity and humility is a balance I struggle to ascertain. Grappling with blackness and womanhood within the confines of religion is not permissive to my actuality. Needy and distant. Not when desire and rage burn through my skin’s seams. Illiterate bookworm. Life of the party, dead of the funeral. Giggling sadness. It is difficult to navigate corporate, city, middle-class life when the labour of working class blackness mystifies that sector of life. Energetic and tired. It does not shine a light on the embers of your soul the way creation does – prose and poetry. People pleasing prude. Blinded by the likes of life it is hard to find your niche. Stiff dancer. You want to be outspoken and express your feelings but cringe at the sound of your own voice – unsure of how you sound and how you’re received. Learner and teacher. Quiet solitude soothes you whilst introducing you to yourself and it is unnerving. Highs and lows. You look in the mirror and can’t decide whether to purchase a wig or rock your shaved head. Serious joke. A stack of makeup sits on your wardrobe and you don’t know whether you will apply it or be as bare as a baby’s bottom. Ugly attraction. Cuisine is a mix-up, some days you eat all you want and other times you limit your meals: veganism is a consideration but so is animal-derived foods. Enough and nearly there. Selfishy selfless. Looking in the mirror you are unsure of whether to be slim or thick or maintain both through the gym. Expensive European outfits could be your forte but bohemian charity chic is calling your name. Basic and boujie. You extract peace from the soft and classical music you play but on many occasions you want to turn up with misogynistic rap music. Independently reliant. Nervous confidence. There are days when you smile with cheeks pressing your eyes and other times melancholy is a permanent state of being. Family intrigues you but you learn best when you are alone. Familial friendships, friendly to the fam. Thiefing giver. Clear-cut and non-sensical. Scrounging and flourishing are conditions you oscillate between. Sharing with everyone and speaking with no-one are patterns you know well. Childish adult. Experimentation is a thought but being straight-laced is a survival skill. Fast-paced environments accelerate my heart but slow and steady makes me feel safe. Loyalty is all I know but cutting ties are required for me to fly. I can’t choose a vernacular: sometimes slang, other times excellent spoken English. Lover and fighter. Omnipresent ghost. Commuting everywhere is equally as exciting as going nowhere. You wear flats to stay grounded but the pain from heels brings pleasure and height. Stunted growth. Council homeowner. A soaking wet sponge. Lone and social butterfly. Tears flow but screams follow. You want to be a purist and focus on one craft but separate and stretch yourself thin. I have listened to the voice of others even though my own bass rumbles deep. Materialistic minimalist. Weirdly simple. I have spoken and faltered, whispered and screamed. Masculine feminist. The way I define myself means little when the labels of others qualify louder. I am smart and dumb, sharp and dense. I am blinded with my eyes open. I don’t ask for help but need it. Naturally fake. I’m fucking intense and inherently boring. Insulating and impressionable. A vocalist and back-up singer, more of a writer than a speaker. Attention seeking recluse. A backstabber and a heart surgeon. Lying truth teller. Blunt and sensitive. Adaptive and closed-off.  Effective and useless. Professional freelancer. Open-minded and conservative. A tee-total tea sipper and drunkard vodka sinker. Scarred, bruised and damaged but a clean slate.

I am everything and nothing, a bleeding contradiction.


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