Something’s Got Me Started

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I now reveal to you my life. It is two in the morning as I write: The Gods are outraged, making the weather shitty everyday, a dose of prickly heat, but then a torment

of rain. I do not see you, for you are not near, or I am far, but please believe me when I tell you what I tell you.

I present to you my mother, the way she glares at you, you would melt on chair, you wouldn’t dare look at the tips of her body hair or you’ll get burned. When I tell you I love her more and more everyday, and I forgive her

for her conservatism. Likewise, you have to understand that I grew up without knowing who or where my father is, thus, I have nothing to say about him. What I do have is something to say to

him, show to him. Nineteen years of my slightly fucked up not-so-average life has never been a burden, even without you. I am sad for the fact that I didn’t get to know you, but then I’m

thankful for my mum, and the people around me for replacing that hollow father-figure. I do not regret not knowing you. Thank you for creating me. I am showing you how

I have loved:  been loved back, not enough, or sometimes too much; the latter two resulting to termination. But when I say there were days when my cheeks pressed against someone’s sweaty chest, or days when I wake in the wee

hours to watch someone sleep, and definitely there were days when my fingers would be tousling someone’s hair signified a forever and a day, I mean for the moment to be acknowledged, I mean

there weren’t a lot of them, I could still count them on my fingers, and they each felt different, at the same time the same. I am being sentimental:

I know no way to speak of the self without amplification; without reminiscing. I am showing you what the pimple on my forehead means.  I am showing you the implication of a smirk, behind a pout, and what the proper

response should have been. I will show you shame, string it up and place it around my neck, or my mother’s neck, or my father’s, or yours. Truly what I’ve been telling you, showing you, what I meant,

what I want, is for you to tell me, ‘It is my story too, it’s mine too’. Not only yours, not an epiphany, but an embrace, not a punchline, but a mirror, but a kiss, but in the waters and in the air.

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