January 22nd

Here we go once again, ya’ll. You would think that after December 7th and April 12th I would figure it out, but now here we are at January 22nd and I’m still nothing but a fool in the eyes of every negro who played me like a Raggedy Anne Doll with her stitched-on smile. Just like the smile I paint on my face day by day because I shy away from being vulnerable except when my pen meets the paper and pours forth lines of utmost pain. Then and only then is when I invite you to my bedroom to gawk at the curves of my hips, the pudge of my stomach, the scars and unspoken marks. I place myself under the microscope and open myself to every format of criticism possible. Through the looking glass you see a messed-up girl with a heart of gold, or so she has been told, but refuses to believe because in all her days she has continued to fail at the one thing she would die for and that is to be the one and only for that One and Only One and the one and only thing she knows and believes without a shadow of a doubt is that this wish will never come true cause stars hold no power. Yet, every night I look at the sky hoping that it will wrap its mysteries around me and make me feel ok. I am not ok. I am not crazy. I am psychotic and maybe just maybe the end is here for me and that is ok for me.

“You never choose me, so why would I even think or even dare hope that you would? I hope she remembers to massage your back once and awhile to help you relax. I hope she doesn’t forget that you like your head scratched a certain way. I hope she doesn’t give up on you, no matter the pain and fear she may feel. I hope she loves you more than I was aiming to because of all the people out there in the world, you truly do deserve it.”