beautiful; fuck you

your best friend is Nigerian. and Igbo. or maybe it was your bus driver? your neighbor? your high school teacher? so you assume I’m Igbo too when you find out I’m Nigerian. no honey, I’m one of the other hundreds of ethnicities you didn’t take the time to learn about.

I’m listening to guns n roses (“november rain”), jagged edge ("gotta be") and boys II men…like “please don’t go away from me” and “it’s so hard to say goodbye.” yeah I’m feelin like that.

this last one fucked me up something serious.

I don’t wanna talk to nobody.

an evil melody of past pain is haunting me. broken hearts screaming at each other about the dissonance of the sound of the pain neither of us created, but continue to exacerbate with all our shouting.

fuck you is the easiest thing for me to say these days.

at the club last night, she said: I hope at least 5 people have told you you’re beautiful tonite.
no, I said
15? she asked
I smiled, said no.

thinking: naw baby, I hear I’m intimidating. beautiful. and intimidating. flying a rocket ship with no formal training is intimidating.. me? I’m just a person (wounded).

me being beautiful is cold comfort to me tonight.

cold comfort on a warm summer night.