Beauty isn't decided by the masses. 
So instead understand your perception is different from everyone else's, understand that mine is too. Our idea of beauty will always be different. But just know something;
I didn't ask for perfect...
I hate perfect.

Revenge is like the sweetest joy next to getting pussy.

Don't fucking do that shit...
Please. Please just, don't do it. Please...

The caffeine's starting to wear off

I thought I knew what kind of girl I was 6 years ago, when mother's womb let me go, and the world ate me up. Stepping cautiously, still dodging obstacles of childhood, with watercolour courage holding my past close behind often running back to the child I truly was.

I thought I knew what kind of girl I was after my first downfall, continuously wiping salty tears from my immature cheeks. Falling once again yet clenching my fists, I stand head held high with pride.

I thought I knew what kind of girl I was 7 months ago when I and everyone I knew denied me of rights I was told I deserved, 5 months when I found you, and 3 when I found us.

But today, what kind of girl am I? What labels will I be burdened with? Who's scornful names must I carry with me, scraping the naked skin off my back. Who am I? 

Biracial, Cotton fluff hair, hazel eyes and coffee coloured skin that glows in the sun. 

Assests that are just as materialised as the last, are just as protected as your first.

Honey that can make you weak at the knees, make your head roll back, and for God sake grab onto something before you hurt yourself, hmm. a woman.

With all her various uses and utilities that aren't compared to a man because we are the fairer sex, we are the delicate ones. WE are the one's to wait and preserve our monuments for inauguration and not prepare an inauguration for your monuments. A woman 

A strong growing woman, 

With two legs, two arms, and a yearning heart am I not the same as you? 

Or you? Or you? Or you? 

Do we not claim the same earth to touch, the same air to breathe. 

Do I not deserve to share a common ground, a name that we all own. 

Did I know that I would grow up to connect with a guy then fall for a girl that would become my world. A flawless girl that is my life, soul, and spirit. I would give every thing I had till I was left with the scraps you all left me with, the ditch I was thrown into, the rags I wore dripping from my body as an exhibition for my tanished soul, for her happiness.

And is it the activities of my rounded lips, my love for expression, my confidence and self freedom to defy you and all your cohaught's wishes that makes me less of a woman. 

Is it the fact that I am with someone with the same assets as me rather that the opposing, someone with delicate hands, and deep dark brown eyes. Someone that I'm proud to show off more than anything I would have ever thought that makes me any less of a lover.

Or is it that I am finding myself in situations where I see the sun shine through my window and roll over onto my side till moonlight seeps through the everlasting daylight. I'm looking to those that wear an everlasting smile, with their lipstick stains so deep and morals so weak, yet their perfume stench trailing their bodies, and fragrant flowers resting in their hair. Do you wear it to disguise the reek of you rotting? How did that work for you? Because I'm sill trying to find the easiest way to hide my  reducing self hate, brought to me by all this pressure. If you knew you'd be remembered would you have worn more make up? Would you have walked, talked differently. Cause I'm 16 and I'm standing looking at myself in the mirror trying to figure out whether I should iron the creases out of my dress this morning.

Does any of this make me less of the person I want to be. No, it just makes me human.

It's funny how we have so many emotional triggers.
A smell, a picture, a song, even a food. And how they can trigger a memory.
How this memory, recent or distant, can fill our whole being with a new sort of energy. Within a matter of seconds our emotional state will change, so quickly we don't even notice.
If there was a way I could try describe this feeling; heart sinking, like a heavy thump, hitting your body, from the inside. Shaking you up. These emotions can be so darn powerful, making you forget whatever you were doing before, distract even from life it self, from Earth. None of it is of any importance any more, none whatsoever.
You find yourself lodged within a memory, in another setting, with other feelings.
Like streams, they flow to your senses, hitting them with a smooth reminder of a past time. Strong enough to make your heart skip, and the little hairs on your arms rise.