It’s hard to see the future when the present doesn’t suit ya, can’t get a clear picture – at least not one that’ll fit ya. You…me..

Me with my frybread thighs, chokecherry eyes, dope vibes – a spiritual gangster. A little hood, a little hippie – a little of this, a little of that, too little, too late, too much too fast…too intimidated and somehow too intimidating and always too many layers. And as you rip my patchwork covers with too many colors, you laugh.

Laugh at the pathetic sprinkling of too few coins of confidence that burst forth and scatter from the tatters of colors- those are MY secret coins kept close to my throat so I can devour their whispers whole – their whispers that I have meaning, I have purpose, I can do it I can do it I can do it.

I CAN FUCKING DO IT ALRIGHT

I can’t do anything now that my secrets lay bare, strewn across the floor, gathered round my black soul and barefeet. Secret’s out. And I am exposed. To you.

You who ripped..You who tore, You the constant alarm clock that screams the reminder that I am not the same as you, you are worthy, you are better, you are never too much. Those are your facts and you are so sure that you are you and I am me and I lose- I can see it in your eyes that I can barely force myself to meet with my own- your cold stare, but..there..

Quietly confirmed – you are right. We are not the same. I am not you. And babygirl, you are most definitely not me.