It’s truly upsetting when one must accept the hard cold facts. One fact that I must muster the courage to swallow is that I will never be truly accepted by my flesh and blood. Yes, the womb which housed me. The space which birthed me. Left out to dry like freshly washed laundry. I remain strung up on the hard wire until I am crisp and solid. Pure linen ready to be thrown over the covers. Waiting for the stains to come and dust to collect, allergy season. Unfortunately, I will never know the horror of being allergic to myself. I will just lie their a stiff.

Just like when I was thrown to the curb stuck between two mountains of black plastic full of my belongings. All bundled in one a bunch of unsorted laundry. The stench that I carry along with me is that of strength, resiliency, and hurt. Yes she cries now maybe over the regret or the sickness. The sickness that comes from hating something so imperfect and that imperfection imprinted in me. I hope she doesn’t take on the responsibility of my living. I am no longer a fresh clean sheet. I have gone through much contortion. My blood has seeped into a colorful palate of delight, only to appeal to some.

I will hang myself to dry, iron out my crinkles to my standards, allow my colors to shine underneath the summer sun, and leave you neat and pristine. You will shine in your own way and mine in mine. Please do not soak yourself in gasoline and sleep near the matches.

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