Coming out from under the umbrella. An attempt at being myself. How do you cross the threshold of censorship when you grew up in a town of what will the neighbors think. I think the neighbors all have their own secrets and who gives a fuck what anyone thinks anyway.
Having been separated by death from the contradicting web of a families lies, I had forgotten how angry I was. Sometimes I want to curse and scream and maybe even throw some things but instead I live in a place of constant composure and I don’t even know who I am anymore.
The self inflected separation from the ones who brought me into this world left me free to be beautiful but how far below the surface does the explosion lie? How can someone look like a cheerleader from Connecticut but come from such chaos. Did I get taken from the wrong family at the hospital?
Does anyone else ever feel like they could go 9 rounds just for the hell of it?
Tragedy wasn’t just meant for Shakespeare and I shall hope to never erupt like a volcano. Pushing from afar and relentlessly testing my very viable Spanish tantrums isn’t going to work.
The decision has been made that this new information I was given whether it be another lie or not shall be the last chapter in the book.
What a mess. And to think it explains a lot, might actually make sense and what a bunch of crazy liars. How much more should I have to endure? When will it truly not matter? Statistic list number, who the hell knows, I’ve finally lost count. Maybe it’s my calling to let it all out. Say what I feel when I feel it and see if the sky opens up all together.
But how do I unravel this unnerving strength that lay within me like a shapeshifter? The unequivocal strength of a girl up against the wall. The detachment is securely fastened around the box that holds my heart. Composure meets censorship and are there any truths left?
All I can do for now is laugh because they’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
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photo courtesy of http://www.wallpaper4me.com/wallpaper/Desolate-Umbrella/