holyshootcrapdamn

I think I’ve only met myself a few times in passing. The blurry figure in the back of the Polaroid, sometimes the audacious over exaggerated face at the forefront.

I was birthed into family pecking order, schooled into behavior, taught which lanes occupy, and handed the keys. Before long i shrank and twisted into tangled wads of experiences and externally decided diagnoses …i wanted to be someone else’s apostrophe ‘s’ so badly just to share the load of Self, I became the walking Rorschach test—“I’ll be whatever you see.”

Existing feels like a riddle and all i manage to bang into are whammies and double whammies. What feels stupid is that i *knoOoOoOw* the answer to the riddle. It’s written on billboards and journal covers i can read but can’t understand if it’s sarcasm or marketing.

“There’s only one you.”

#latediagnosed everything?

Or maybe just right the fuck on time.

"Who are you, and what were you before? What did you do and what did you think?"