I am who I am.
I can be a sinner or a saint, the sweetest thing next to a nightmare. I can be terribly awkward and gracefully poised, androgynously daring and daintily coy. I dissolve within and outside of genders. I am woman with all the power she possesses; unbelievably brilliant and frustratingly idiotic. I am innocent and I fluster easily but my tongue is also sharp and my head is sometimes filled with carnal things. I am quiet when I think. I think a lot.
I am a cacophony of things that matter and don’t; of pictures painted and blurred out. I am certain fears, flitting highs and crushing lows, I am the monster beneath my bed and yours. I am depressed and broken and reinvented whole. I am my own salvation even if I sometimes don’t know it.
I am an escape artist; freedom in a t-shirt and torn jeans. I am a rebel in faded leather, I am a jaded healer who chooses whom to heal, and I am Libran whether I believe.
I am not what you think I am, not what you say I am, and definitely NOT what others imagine me to be. I am many things and you have not even begun to scratch my surface. And like you I can exist alone.
I am my own darkness and light.