A self-deprecating narcissist, I criticize my egotism.
The paradox of my paradise, in which we all live-
The paradox of my paradise, in which I live alone…

Inhaling, Exhaling, Wheezing, Coughing,
Sputtering out words lined with spit,
Each saliva drenched syllable covered with passion,
My mind is a story meant for all to hear.
My opinion matters to nobody except myself,
Yet all ears should prick at the sound of my voice.

The world revolves around me,
Me…my charitable self,
Selfishly giving and spreading my love.
Love me. Love to hate me. Just don’t hate me.
Love me as I love myself-
Never hate me as strongly as I loath my own being.

I govern myself and myself alone…
Trying to change the actions of others never got me anywhere,
Yet the urge to try won’t subside.
No one controls me, not even me…
Giving into temptation is too easy to do…
My conscience is dead, but my morals hold strong.

There is no God.
No…I am my own God.
But I place no Bible upon others, no Torah, no Qur'an,
No laws or boundaries do I place upon the world,
Simply words of idiotic wisdom and profound profanity.

A post-it note clings steadfast to my lips
“Dirty” it reads, as it labels the cavernous opening below.
Yet my nostrils inhale the smoke of others,
Their dredge, their waste, their excremental toils-
I attempt to understand their diminutive morals,
Try to see why my words must be censored,
When other’s actions are crying out to be repressed.
Everyone has the right to do what they please.
Everyone is entitled to fuck up their own lives.

Just don’t fuck up mine.

I can do that fine on my own.

I’m always prompt.
Early is on time, and on time is late.
Planning is key to a well-balanced life.

I procrastinate life.
My timing is terrible.
I always miss existence by a moment.

As you watch from afar I’m obnoxious.
As you observe from up close I’m mysterious.
As you live from within I’m your dream.
As you seek from outside I’m your hell.
Longing before, loving during, suffering after…
Hating and loving all the while.

I try to examine myself from the outside.
I scrutinize the same, or much more, than a stranger would.
I try to comprehend what they see-
Is it the same face I see in the mirror?
Or is their image skewed, tainted by their opinions of me-
Tainted by their opinions of themselves.

The good-hearted have a spark within…
It glows and brightens their outward appearances.
The bad should look evil,
Their eyes should be hollow with debauched wickedness.
Yet instead, they glimmer, they shine happily.
Striving to gain nefariousness I cling firmly to my values,
My halo knocked askew, yet still dangling above my head.
I long to share that glimmer.

I long to be original.

No thoughts in my head are my own.
There is nothing left new for me to think.
It’s all been done before.

I want to be remembered for doing something new.
I want to be remembered for being somebody new.
I want to be loved for being me.
I want to be able to love others for being themselves.

I am a hypocrite.
I hate hypocrites.

I step outdoors to gather my thoughts-
I am greeted by the harsh cold wind,
Gnawing and thrashing at my feet, they bite away my feelings.
Indoors by the fire I recover…
Numb and frozen, I begin to thaw.
Recluse, solitary, hidden away.

I’m a claustrophobe.
Small spaces and large crowds make me short of breath.
I’m a monophobe.
Empty halls and aloofness cause me to shudder.

I don’t want other people labeling me.
So I label myself first.
I overanalyze everything,
Every part, every last scrap of flesh and bone.
I overanalyze everyone,
Motives are hidden in every inhalation,
Paranoia is the consequence.

I recognize what they’re trying to do,
I am strong and I am wary, I will not give in.
Until kind words stream in from the less gentle sex,
Gullibility and weakness flow through as well.
Large hands and deep voices coax the scared girl out,
And the brash and blunt woman hides deep within.
She longs to be set free.
She is too afraid of the consequences.

She lives on the edge…
The edge of sanity.
She doesn’t deserve what she has been handed…
She deserves everything that she reaches for and misses-
They slip through her grip like gooey paint,
Coloring her hands in the past.
Not worthy of who she is…
Taken for granted…worth so much more than she’s given credit for.

Life is a paradox.