beginnings

I've been meaning to do this for a while: to go somewhere and spill, pour, and erase. I am just a lady who isn't very good at being one. That's it. I told you there was no revolution here.
I write a lot but this is me cheating. At some point I signed a contract with myself that said I would present some ugly things and capitalize them. This means everyone could know I was insecure if they wanted to. The untimely deaths were fair game. The worries were visible. That's good I suppose. Show some things. Hide others.
Hide others.
That's it right there. It was the hiding that broke me, not the revealing. So, what happens to the visible things? "If I am already broken, I cannot break." I once wrote that in a sad poem. I broke over and over, that's what happened. I would sit and be just fine and I'd feel guilty. Oh no -- time to tap into the worries. You are not pretty. That's not enough? Ok. Your mother is sick. Oh, still too tiny? Where is your suitor? Oh, you have none? That's right. Be sad. It's only natural.
I'd fight a smile because there is something in my past that should have a grip on my present. I am not a happy gal. No. Of course not. If I am broken....I cannot break. Right.
Now, this is me creating balance. I am forgetting because I can and I want to. I don't care to topple over from anything but joy. That's not even true. It doesn't have to be joy as long as it's in the moment. No more being sad as if that's all I am. I'm other things too. I've got the ostracism, yes. Oh, but I also have the honey.
Stir. Add a little bit of nothing. Sip, mama. Sip.