Wednesday, September 18, 2013

I like being alone. I am comfortable in the silence that surrounds me, that allows me to breathe and let go of the facade that competes with the enormous amount melanin for a place in my skin. I am curious, so curious about life, and myself. And life and myself. I've climbed so far inside that I no longer want to come out when others are around. What does it mean to truly be comfortable with yourself? I think this means being alone. I think that this will hurt the people who want to be around me. I think it will hurt myself. Community is important to me, but when the community that I live within attempts to force their false ideologies down my throat, I will gladly and swiftly withdraw myself. I am uncommon, and comfortably with my unusually deep thoughts. I've begun reading Quiet by Susan Cain, in an attempt to become more comfortable with who I am as an introvert. I will let you know how I feel about it later.
I think that I've forgotten how important she is,
Somewhere within the boundaries of a vague incarnation of love
I lost her, while traipsing hand in hand with lies
ignoring the sound of glass breaking beneath my feet,
"No house is perfect," I told myself,
as I avoided my reflection because
sometimes the heat that becomes trapped in these glass walls
distorts my face, and I am afraid.
I am suffocating.