I Confess
I confess that I am not myself when placed in the middle of a crowd. Shy, quiet, reserved. I'm the comma in the middle of the sentence. One of many paintings on display at an artist's premiere.
I confess that sometimes I wish I could scream, and scream, and scream some more until my throat aches from the strain on my vocal chords. Then I'll be petrified by it all. Not because I screamed, but because I, the subconcious attention seeker, had actually done it. Such sweet release even as prying eyes ogle me and I recoil from their gaze. Might I dance again? No one cares. The outside matters more. She may have a pretty step, but look at her. Do you like what you see? Please let me know. Attention whore that I am.
I confess that my self-esteem still gets the better of me.
I confess that I'm a woman, and I like it. I confess that I am a woman, and I hate it. Pretty eyes glance my way through the mirror, stubby legs and a stomach to match. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That eye has stabbed me in the back.
I confess that I like men, but let's not talk about that.
I confess that religion and I don't seem to get along these days, but the Lord and I still have a lovely understanding, even if he still breaks my heart.
I have a confession to make. I have no more confessions . Revelations are a thing of the past, and these are just too painful. Too selfish, too insignificant, and in the end it all comes back to the thing I love to hate and hate to love: attention.
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x-posted from newsvine.
