I don’t do small talk.

I’m not good at smiling and talking about myself,

I don’t ask how strangers met their spouse,

or what college their child is going to,

because quite frankly,

I don’t care.

The pretty smile on my face is fake,

and my stomach turns every time someone asks me about my life,

where I’m going,

what I want,

where I came from,

who my family is.

It’s not a name they’d know,

I’m not from a town they’ve heard of,

I’m not anything that is remotely on their radar.

But it’s the polite way to exist in society,

and it makes me want to crawl out of my skin when I go home at night.

I wash the mask off of my face,

and I see the woman in the mirror.

The woman who got to where she is not by following her heart,

but by falling down,

over

and over.

After listening to older white men tell her how to live her life,

only to realize far too late that they didn’t want what’s best for her.

It’s almost hypocritical,

that I don’t like talking about myself,

but it’s all I can write about.

The pain,

and the trauma,

and the heartbreak,

and the breakdown.

I shattered.

There is who I was before,

and I’m still figuring out who the hell I am after.

It’s odd,

knowing that who I once was would adore to be where I am.

My younger self would think I was crazy to think about leaving,

to give up the glamour,

the labels,

the parties.

To be able to be in the same room as some of the wealthiest people in the midwest,

my younger self wouldn’t ever want to walk away from it.

But I just look around the crowded room,

filled with furs and fine jewelry,

and all I can think is,

I don’t belong here.

 

-I’m not sure what I want but I know it isn’t this

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