5%, or am i?

Listening to Bob Dylan.
Colored pencils and journal lying on
my cafe table.
Leaning back
in a wooden chair,
Keyboard taunting me.
Haven’t written in a while.
Well, my head is crawling
so now here come the words.
Just a few.
I think usually what I write
is only about 5%
of what I really
want to say.
What you read next may be
a hard path of mismatched bricks,
hard to follow,
but I find that sort of…
delicious.
Especially when readers walk across it
barefoot.
I got my hair cut this week.
It’s all gone,
pixie cut all the way.
It’s liberating.
I can now cross that off of my bucket list.
I’ve been writing a bucket list.
My hope is that
the more I put on it,
the greater my zeal for life
and its twists and turns
will be.
I went clubbing last night.
I went with a borderline friend
after I flashed her
my size C’s
and ran around getting ready,
trying to look
perfect.
We went out, my first time,
and I tried to pick up guys.
But dammit it just wasn’t happening.
It wasn’t okay then, but it’s okay now.
I don’t want a drunk frat boy grinding on me
and not even caring to know
my name
Tanya
Tanya who is in an identity crisis.
Or am I?
Tanya who sees herself in black and white terms,
never in grey.
I’m either the black sheep of my family,
or I am the perfect little girl I’ve always been,
all according to me.
I go out and flirt
and I am suddenly this horrific dark creature.
I pray for my troubled friends
and I am back to being
“perfect-but-still-not-perfect-enough”
Tanya.
Tanya whose parents love her
so deeply it’s ridiculous.
And I still
want to distance myself
from them.
I’m being over-parented, over-protected
but I am so fragile.
Or am I?
I am so brave and strong,
Tanya and others tell me.
Or am I?
No- I AM strong
but dammit…..
.
.
.
I carry so much shame with me
it’s difficult to understand how
it hasn’t suffocated me yet.
.
.
.
.
.
.
i need patience
.

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