I am a self-mutilator, a lover, a barefooter, a smoker, a fighter, a recovering addict, a picker, an advocate for humanity, a teenaged human being.
Is any wonder that I take medication three times a day, or need a dose of nicotine and music just to feel the earth spin beneath me?
I am one of seven billion on this planet.
Occasionally, the thought is comforting, that this life is meant only to please me. It's absolutely impossible to please anyone else with only my sheer existence. I can only make my decisions based on my analysis of their consequences and hope to God that someone won't die along the way. And even if they do, I can't do a damn thing about it.
Still, other times, the thought makes me spit. My ego takes over, and I want desperately to be bigger than I am. I want to scream as loud as I can, thinking that I can outshout the billions of others. I gnash my teeth in disappointment, in despair, because I feel I've failed. I'm insignificant.
And yet, I am not.
After all, I'm a lover, a friend, a daughter, a sister. I can never drop these labels on my own-fate must have his hand in it.
So maybe I am a lump of clay, molded by the hands of fate. Take the razor blade out, put the cigarette in, pull the cigarette out, put in rehab, pull out of rehab, adjust this, trim that...
And I'm left on the rack-as is.
Irregular, like a toss-out at Ross.
Hey, it's where I shop.
It's where I got this sweater.
Patches...
Original source: http://alexandracoffin.wordpress.com/?p=91
