I know how the world works
I know that the sun rises in the west and illuminates the sky a beautiful brilliant chartreuse
I know that cats bark and dogs meow. Fish walk among us and butterflies are imprisoned in the ocean
Birds only dream of flight while the manatee soars through the open air
While I know all of these things, I maybe rethink that I, in fact, have no idea how the world works.

Oh no have I over slept?
I hope my hair looks ok
Does this outfit make me look bad?
I never look good, why am I trying?
They’re staring at me as I walk down the hall
I heard someone laugh! Was it at me?
What if I give the wrong answer?
Can anyone smell me?
I know my friends don’t actually like me
Why do I question everything?
Why is everything going wrong?
Why can’t I do anything right?
Why was I born?
Why?

Just like that, in just one second my life ended. My unsteady, unsure breaths stopped. My fluttering stomach froze and the churning calmed. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone. So many people telling me it’s not my fault, only time can heal. Time is not a healer. But I am. My chest moves ever so slightly. There’s no dramatic gasp, no sudden clutching of the chest. Just small, tiny, almost inaudible breathes. In. Out. In. Out. Time did not teach me how to breathe again. I did.

I can’t breathe. Inhale then exhale? No, no exhale then inhale, no wait that’s not right. I just can’t seem to remember. My heart beat grows louder and harder, pulsing in my ears, making my chest ache. I grip my stomach to stop the churning and fluttering. What is happening to me? Trying to shake this light headed feeling won’t go away. Palms grow hot and the slightest rosy tint blotches my cheeks. The mere thought of him sends me spiraling out of control. And yet...I can’t stop thinking about him

My hair is my pride yet does not define me
My curls are a part of me but they aren’t me
The sentence goes “Bugs has an Afro” not “The Afro is wearing the girl”
If I want to extend it I will. If I want to cut it I will.
Never will I straighten it, tie it up, or relax it for people who cannot handle my curls at full volume. For these people I wear my Afro. I wear my space buns, my crochet braids, my shaved head. The only thing unprofessional is your 19th century attitude and prejudice opinions. It is a work place not a plantation.