I am that girl

I don't quite believe in fairytales or "once upon a times". But I was once a young girl in this dark world, full of doubt and self hatred. I found strength in these bold pens and fragile sheets of paper. For they were representations of my life. I was the stereotypical number of African-American girls who everyone thought would become a product of where she's from. Because her dad beat her whenever she was home, and her mother would never leave the man alone. But love and lonely are two words in the same. They were the reason her thoughts were oh so suicidal, and her mind could no longer bear or tolerate this breached security. Eleven years of this intolerance, a change had to occur. She moved from place to place, but it seemed each place was never quite hers. She was homeless. But too young to understand. Eighteen years is plenty long enough to put together pieces and make sense of reality. And so she proceeded to write and pray every night, because that seemed to be the only remedy she ever had. She was shy. Antisocial. Not so vocal. She didn't know how to talk to guys? But they certainly wanted her.  But she never understood why. Because when she looked in the mirror, all she saw was this broken girl. This shattered soul. This being with no identity. No beauty. Just a deep hole where her heart should've laid in this void. Unconscious. Because society wanted her to believe that her inner beauty was not beautiful enough. Because she lacked hips and thighs, and breast and buns, she wasn't pretty. And because of her insecurities, relationships never lasted long. She was empty. She wouldn't give in, or there was someone else he was in, or she just didn't quite fit in or meet his forte. Here are societies requirements knocking along my door again. Maybe she was too harsh? Or too strong. She began self blame to ease the pain. To think that she was unpleasant to be with and became so. A bitter child. But she didn't know any better. Cause the only role model she ever had for a man was her dad. And he showed her what not to choose. This grudge she held for far too long...this voice that wouldn't leave her alone. But she's not crazy. It's reality whispering into her spirit. Hoping she hears it, and listens well. She is unbothered, by death and circumstance, because she's been through it all. Instead she sits up straight, back arched, pen sharp, and writes the melody in her mind before it's too soon forgotten. Because writing seems to be the only thing to get her through the day. It's her high. It's made her the women she's grown to be. She's ME. An original, non-photocopied soul. Blessed by the eternity's sweet grace to still be on the face, or this earth.