Sometimes. Just sometimes.

Sometimes I don’t want to be the lady society tells me to be. Sometimes I want to cus bad words, and throw things, and race the engine. Sometimes I want to put my oppressive heels in the garbage disposal. Other times I want to wear six-inch heels and a short skirt without attracting the wrong attention. These days sexy to me is a modest outfit, a longer skirt, a blouse that covers me fully. Sometimes sexy to me is even sweat pants, other times its Victoria secrets. Sometimes I want to paint my lips, fingernails, and cheeks pink and wear pearls while sitting in a hot bubble bath. Other times I want to not shave my legs for a month. Sometimes I want to smoke a cigarette, just to watch the smoke as I blow it from between my puckered lips. Sometimes I want to love with all of myself, until I just disintegrate, sometimes that’s just how much love I want to give. Sometimes I want to be stingy. Sometimes I want to be stingy. Sometimes I don’t want to play by any rules. Sometimes the board game angers me, because it tries to monopolize me. Sometimes I want to cut it, with precision, into a million little pieces, but I wonder if I’d get lost. I wonder if freedom knows how to exist anymore. Sometimes the inner Rasta that lurks in me wants to spend endless days unifying myself with nature, let my hair grow comb and brush free. Sometimes I want to smile. Other times I just want to be straight-faced and not have someone asks me what’s wrong.  I’m struggling to sort through piece back piece inch by inch, what is my definition of a lady, of a woman, stripped of all the societal constraints imposed and encoded in me. Because some of them, I agree. But I wonder if that’s the robot in me. Stop picking me apart. Sometimes I love when panty hose get a run. Secretly. It’s the non-conformist in me. But sometimes the old-fashioned me, just want to be “a little lady” and take care, and take care. When I feel like, and only when I feel like, let him speak for me. Rest under his arm, and let him be in charge of we. Till tomorrow when I conquer the world in those same oppressive heels because it just feels so much more of an achievement if I can do it in what you thought would hinder me. Own it. Own it. Sometimes I want to yell “YES I’M A BLACK WOMAN” can we get past that now? There is no stereotyping me. Sometimes I want to say the F word, with emphasis. Sometimes I wish I could spend and entire day in prayer. Sometimes I think men should take birth control. Leave my precious ovaries the hell alone. Sometimes I secretly think some men aren’t men, and have detachable parts, and aren’t even human. Sometimes its funny to me how incredibly lost we all are. Like headless chickens running around. It’s really quite funny if you think about it. Sometimes I’m convinced my sole purpose is to create art. Sometimes I want to go swimming in paintings. Sometimes I do all of these things. Because I dare to be who I want to be in each moment, and could care less about what anyone has to say about it.


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