No I’m not ok. . .
No I’m not well. . .
No I do not have my shit together. . .
No I’m not perfect. . .
Yes I’m insecure. . .YET
I’m stronger than I look
. . .
Half the time I’m done. . .
I’m obsessed with straight hair. . .
I don’t know what to do with my curly hair. . .
I secretly want to run away . . . All the time. . .
I have secrets. . .
I’ve held on to some so long I no longer remember when they became secrets. . .
I forget them sometimes, but like a joint flair up when the weather is cold memories have triggers too.
I want to fly. . .
I want to run. . . Run. . .run. . . all the time. . . YET. . .
I’m stronger than I look. . .?
from who you ask. . . ? from whom do you run. . .
From myself, from choices that feel right but seem wrong, from multiple realities that make more sense to others than to me, that primal internal battle between breeding and instinct.
from the pressures of being “me” . . . yes me. . . ,
not the me I believe I am, not the me that makes me feel at rest. . . no not her,
rather the me that is preached and hammered in by a discombobulated society.
A society riddled with selfishness and the need to control, an insecure society that is afraid to embrace itself. . . tells me that I am less than, . . . that I am not enough as I am. . . I can do better, I can do more, and while at it remember to smile less Sungura, you give people the wrong idea.. . . you are too serious Sungura, let loose alittle . . . you are cheap Sungura. . . Ongeza body count Sungura. . . Bado hujaomoka Sungura?. . .you are too sensitive Sungura. . . You are too full of yourself. . . you should wear this not that. . . ‘well meaning’ passive aggressive advise from the insecure, . . . be this, be that. They will love you more then, they will accept you then. . .
I am left wondering who are they. . . ? they is my society. . . my society is me, . . . , in my struggle to fit in, I become society, I am the passive aggressive shame-er, the discontent, frustrated adult,. . . the insecure chauvinist. . .the toxic human . . . when I don’t sieve what I let in. . . when I do not self regulate. . . when ‘society’ masters me. . .I became society. I chime in when society is propagating its rhetoric. So who is society? society is me. . . the words I tell myself, the insecurities I do not let go off. . . yes society is me.
So maybe I have mercy on myself and. . . the lenses of society start to change.
Maybe I do ‘society’ a favor, and repair my internal clock. . .