When I was 8 I decided in 10 years I would bleach my skin, straighten my hair, dye it blonde and change my name to Alicia.
When 18 rolled around, I had short natural hair and an intense desire to be the best Black woman I could be.
When I was 12 I started drinking because that is what girls with daddy issues are expected to do.
Now I read books to ignore it all. And when it comes up, I write about it and people tell me my words make them cry.
I only cry for myself.
The words “You should be ashamed” never meant anything to me. I should be young too. Impressionable. Naive. I’m not. I’m simply not.
Sometimes I forget I feel the need to die. Sometimes I forget I feel the need to live.
I learned that words can be useless last year. The beginning of this year reminded me.
When they consider you a writer, and you’re in pain, they don’t notice. They just want your words, not necessarily You.
I don’t know how to tell some friends I love them. So I stare and listen.
I tell some I don’t. They think I’m playing.
“You’re too young to think this way.” If I didn’t, I’d be either dead or bland. Rather this.
My friend said my heart shatters into pieces and I love again like I forget. It’s a blessing and a curse.
If I am quiet around you, I’m either falling in love or beginning to dislike you.
And I sometimes still think words are useless. Don’t ask my why I write.
I hate passionately. It’s a problem. But sometimes it feels necessary.