this

Light flickers gently from the burning wax beside me. The scent is faint and calming, completely unlike the current chaos of my mind. So many things to think about, so many questions yet to be answered. But let us not get to hasty and jump right into the heart of things. These things must be coerced out of hiding, lulled into a false sense of security, then shared with brutal honesty for the rest of the world to understand. And this is where it will begin, in the candle light, alone with nothing between us but the admission of these thoughts.

I don't ask for much, at least I don't think I do. Enough sense to know right from wrong, enough courage to not let the world take advantage of me, and enough knowledge to make it all worth while. Perhaps I do ask for too much.  I made a list of everything that I want. It is the most magnanimous list; it only contains about three realistic ambitions. To make it a reality would be to become completely numb to everything but ignorance. My frivolity is exposed.  The romantic that lurks in the corners of my mind knows not what it means to contain thoughts and knowledge and all the things that lead us further from feeling. My romantic entertains ideas of emotion and love. The things that make us human, that make us weak. This is everything completely laid out on the table, nothing is held back.

Brace yourself.

I am, for lack of a better word, a thief. There isn't a thought in my head that is there because of originality. I am a fake, a fraud, a phony. I strive for a sense of superiority, I am a snob. I say this not to make you hate me, but so that you understand where I'm coming from. This is the darkness I've come to accept.

From the left, the right, old, new, this is everything you have ever wanted to know, and more. About me. No, this isn't what I look like, or where I grew up, who my parents are; those things are insignificant. For all intents and purposes I am a normal, average, generic female. I'm not tall, I'm not short. A defining quality, I wouldn't say there is one. What is important is that this is my story; this is me being set free. This is my collection of words arranged in the manner I see fit. It may be poetry, it may be prose. It could very well be something so fucked up that only I could come up with it. Just words.