Sadly enough, I've let my color define me. reduce me. align me. 


I shouldn't be afraid of what I am or who I am, though now it doesn't matter I guess. I've reduced myself to something malignant. 

I try to be vain, conceded to convince myself I'm pretty to make sure I understand, that I glance in every mirror. it's because I'm beautiful, it has to be.

I now realize all of it is where my insecurities are hidden, inside the crevices that hide the lies. 

I'm broken and mostly a disguise, but I've convinced myself that's just fine. 

I don't have the patience anymore to cry. not anymore, not ever.

I'm black and young and slightly obsessed with sex. I'm also madly in love with stories and movies and photographs. 

I'm mostly live a fantasy, almost always a lie, more out of necessity than anything otherwise.

I write stories to escape my life even though, all my stories are carved right out of mine.

I wear my heart on my sleeve and bleed down my front and everybody sees.

I'm too loud and I hate myself.

That's it, honestly