Saturday, June 5

Sleep Is Unbecoming...

I’m practicing gratitude. It’s kind of funny that I have to remind myself of this every ten minutes or so. Constant affirmations of the divinity within the self is common play in the sting of conversations I have. The dialogue in my head runs in an unoriginal loop these days---skipping beats entirely. I bounce between self-hatred, disgust, love, faith. I’m trying to find God everywhere.

Instead, I find you. You, with your big eyes and smooth hands--- with the palms of a boy who has never worked a day in his life. And I imagine the tired, cracked hands of my grandfather, of my father. Would you ever measure up a man to them? Whose expectations could you fulfill? Whose expectations could I?

Certainly, my limbs aren’t dainty, aren’t feminine in the least. Too use to moving swiftly through bustling crowds of hungry patrons, searching for something to give. But I’m too rough to exhibit a genteel spirit. You see right through me. Right past me.

I could be pretty if not for my continence. You could be handsome, if not for your timidity. I am a brute. You are meek.

It makes me sick, but I’m practicing gratitude, remember?


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