|Don't look at me.|
To write or not to write is the question I've been pondering? If I write, do I tell you my truth or only that which is deemed appropriate by society? Will you like what I write or do I really care? Am I conflicted between truth and wanting to be accepted? Since this is new territory for me, I've been unable to pen words suitable for you. It may be the enemy's way of distracting me or it may be that certain circumstances are playing themselves out in my life. Whatever the case, I'm somewhat troubled with the risk of unmasking and offending those whom I love.
My mother beat me when I was a little girl for telling the truth. When asked why I had told the truth, I said it was the right thing to do. She beat me again. When you get kicked around enough, you begin to cower. I did not cower, however. I grew stronger; a sense of justice rekindled with every slap.
I can't seem to help myself. I want to give you an unveiling that is raw and even questionable. My writing should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable (Banksy).
There is no space between you and me. Should there be?
I shall always choose to see.