It’s taken years and a lot of crap for me to understand;
I am deep, serious, complicated and messy.
I am professional, focused, and driven.
My ability to persevere sometimes doesn’t know when to quit.
Sometimes I can be a bitch and sarcastic as hell.
I can swear like a trucker.
If it’s political then I’m often “incorrect,” sometimes on principle.
I’ve been called abrasive and brilliant.
I hate change because most of my life it equated loss.
I don’t usually act my age but part of me is wise beyond my years.
I like to be right but I’m a graceful loser.
I think empty beauty is ugly.
My respect is reserved for the truth.
I can love like no other.
I am moved, sometimes to tears, by simple things.
I’m obsessed with equality and continually overwhelmed by the barriers blocking it.
The phrase, “socially acceptable,” makes me cringe.
I care too much, often about the wrong things or wrong people.
I sometimes laugh too hard and too loud at the silliest of things.
I usually put everyone before myself.
I have no patience for fluff but endless time for meaning.
My insides don’t match my put-together outsides.
I am consistently inconsistent.
I crave routine but fail miserably at creating and living by it.
I am a perpetual student yet feel a deep sadness that I won’t have enough time in my life to learn more.
Tech fascinates and inspires me but also infuriates me in the ways it is abused.
I love spring, autumn, and winter but hate the summer.
I let outside people and events affect me too much.
Once in awhile, the surface cracks and all the pain and trauma comes pouring out like a lava flow. And at those times I’m ugly, raw, and too real for most people to handle.
Above all else, at last, after all this time, I’m me, just me. And that’s okay, it’s better than okay.