Wave Crashing Wave

I’m going to ramble and not make sense,

   But the sense I am spilling is honest and relevant.

My stream of conscious is a pond,

A pool,

An ocean of consciousness that crashes

Restless

      Relentless

              Tirelessly over the shores of my brain.

The echos are earthquakes erupting inside,

     Convincing me not to be good.

To not be proper.

To not be sunshine and smiles.

I want to be the opposite of what I was taught.

I want to curse and fart and enjoy sex and art.

I want to embrace my softness of stomach and my masculinity of mind.

Instead, I cross my legs and please and thank you until I am blue in the face and guilty in the gut because I ate that dessert and I liked it. Liked how bad it was for me.

The whipped cream of sweetness, the sugared nothingness, like all of my failed romances, slowly rotting my insides like a masochistic erosion of body and soul.

And I feed into consumerism and body dysmorphia, just like the silky pages of magazines coerce me to. And I feed into the neuroses and anxiety that society has placed on me to be perfect,

Faultless.

Guiltless.

Wave crashing wave of pretty perfection that drowns my faulted self in wave crashing wave of self-doubt.

Pounding.

Perilous.

Precipice.

Wave crashing wave.

And all I am doing is trying to break free, trying to —

No, fuck that, I’m just struggling to keep my lips above the current.

And there it is – sailor words that come out of my not so pretty little mouth. And they sound good too me. And they feel good to me. They are masturbatory vocabulary that make me unladylike.

Unproper.

Faulted as fuck.

And I like it…

I like how it feels when I come or how I can push myself until I break.

I take care of my body and mind with no life-preserver. No outside help. No one to make me better or stronger.

No one…

No one to tell me I’m pretty or…

No one to tell me I am worth loving or…

No one to be my raft, my captain.

No one.

Wave crashing wave.

I am alone.

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