My insecurities. My truth. My story.
I’m hearing voices in my head, think I’m schizophrenic. Isn’t that what Jeezy said? Except these voices tell me to shrink. In recliner seats where my hips don’t fit, but my waist lays back perfectly...fine. Shrink. In the back of couches to stay for some time...to wine and dine...to accept fire and desire with no strings of attachment...or love. Shrink.
I feel at home in the comfort of the walls I call sacred, face mask on, popcorn buttered, and a drink to put me to sleep. To put my mind at ease. To escape a world that tells me...to shrink. In the gym that I go to every day to “work on me”. Where men wink at me, call me “baby”, and I ignore them with the strongest face I know...because if they saw my big heart, it’d have to...shrink. To neglect its own love that won’t be returned. To stop...bleeding.
Sometimes I’m massive. I feel inflated when laughter escapes my lungs. When eyes gaze into my soul until I’m forced to look at me...and really look at my crooked smile, the way my eye twitches when I eat, my obsessive possession, my addictive want...to be needed. I wouldn’t have to shrink if the world was...just a little deeper. If people didn’t want meaningless pieces of me. If it didn’t seem I was everything...to everybody. Shrink.
Box me in....and then cringe when I don’t fit. In your perfect picture. As a lady. As yours. As wild. As holy. You thought I was yours...to shrink. But you didn’t have enough paint to fill the canvas. The edges still white...because you realized you couldn’t finish coloring me. The ends a mix of pointed and smooth...yet the picture incomplete.
I want to give...what everyone wants...every version....every draft....every copy. Maybe for a pat on the back...maybe for a few more likes on IG....maybe for my dream wedding ring.
I tried to box me in....but I cannot shrink.