I’m not sure if it was my tax-free street revenue,
bodily-harm PTSD trauma type of shxt,
maybe the first fist fight I was in,
and the fact I fell in love with the throbbing feeling in my forearm and hand.
Maybe it was my grandmother dying,
or the time I revived my daughter,
or the endless girl,
but one day I just woke up with zero filter, toxic fumes pouring out my windpipe and into the lungs of anything that came close and either I get you high
or I poison you.
Fatal attraction.
I have learned that anything/everything can/will happen to me. Unfortunately, I survive all of it. A battered, embittered, trashed body inside of my real body that controls my every step.
The dropping of my shoulders,
the popping of the booty,
the side-eye so disrespectful it forces you to glare back.
You can’t tell if you’re turned on, scared, or ready to fight me. (You’re not ready to fight me.)
The best one being I left a cake on this lady’s porch and wrote “Are you DEAD inside?” in icing. She caused harm to people I care for.
Also another time I left cupcakes, flowers, and an Applebees gift card. Blasted her on Facebook for having a trashy yard, no eyebrows, and no soul. I wanna make her brain eat itself.
I have a really, really hard time saying “I love you.”
I have a really, really easy time having my hand in the street.
Even after my last cancer surgery, when I needed my pain pills, I couldn’t hold on to them any better than I hold on to my depleted reservoir of gentleness, kindness,
forgiveness.
It’s feel the pain and get a little money.
It’s have my cake and eat it too.
I have probably ignorantly disrespected everybody I know. I wish I could look at that objectively and throw water on my blistering justifications,
but they’re too fire, y’all.
*insert booty drop, twerk twerk twerk*
I speak English, Spanish, and curse words.
I cry in therapy because I realize I’m self aware and bitter. It’s a weird feeling to have your higher self self-destructing.
