really Not disturbed, But not Quite there

 I don’t want to be hollow. People think I am. Maybe they’re right. maybe I’m this piece of shit person who fucks everyone over. And in the end…no remorse runs through my veins. I can stare right in your eyeball and lie so well, I believe my own bullshit. But, clashingly, I don’t want to be hollow. An empty drum. I want to change my ways; just don’t think I can face the world as polite and vulnerable person. It would take advantage of me, surely. I will protect myself at all costs. But protecting myself, as I say; that excuse is getting old. I’m fucking lonely and I am tired of it. Being hollow prevents me to say,

“Love me.”

It prevents the man to say,

“I love you.”

And so I am mad at myself and those who’ve created this hollow heart in me to progress throughout my sad, empty life.

I yearn to love. But how I do even try to when I have so much hate?

You want to love people. But you hate them at the same time.

Can you really blame me?

He was a fine man, standing there waiting for his coffee.

The friends are complaining.

The enemies are hating.

But I sit here nonchalantly,

Purposely oblivious to the snickering.

Don’t ask me if or why I have gave up on the brotha’s…

Since I haven’t.

Being attracted to a certain or one race has nothing to do with it.

He was just simply there.

A little older. You see me, don’t you?

Haven’t really changed much; since i’ve learned everything from myself.

No mother. No big sister. Not even a distant aunt.

Just me. A trained young woman who’s not in training anymore.

That graduation’s been passed.

Cheer up. I’m not a sour person.

I wasn’t born cynical.

Just been in a dark place you can say.

But I am grateful to be alive; surviving, kicking, somewhat breathing.

Ungrateful of who I am.

Don’t ask questions…unless the need to hear them is vital.

The importance of my existence to you has touched me in ways I’m too young to feel.

But I feel them anyway.

You catch me on the corner, pufffing on my cigarette, and though I am not quite your original Lolita,

I am very much, in this town, compared to her. The young, awful whore of a girl.

I don’t dance for joy at their simulations about me,

but neither do I deny the thought.