The night sky is blue.
Amaranthine - endless
The mosaic trail left upon my satin skin.
The tinge caressing my eyes,
Which have seen
The devil himself
And yet dare not expose the azure brutality
Enveloped in your venomous cradle.

The waves are blue.
An exhausting struggle I brave
Cyclically
Desperate to subsist
As you seek to drag me
Cascading
To the ocean floor -
Where I embrace my demise at your hands.

Blood flows blue
Yet pours red.
The colour you see each time I dare to pursue escape.
The colour you see
If I am to take too long in the bathroom.
If I am to have a quiet word with my friends
Without your contiguity
Looming like a cloud
Blue
Threatening a downpour congruent with my tears
As I beg them to liberate me
Yet say no such thing.

The lights projected from the ambulance
Pleading with traffic to manufacture a path
As I lay
Helpless.
Blue.
Broken ribs and a broken heart.
Not the first assault and victim to more than yourself
But my forgiving nature
Assures that this is not the final beating.
As my skull is glued and the morphine streams through my veins
And the boys in
Blue
Delicately ask
“Did he do this, again?”
I nod,
Though the officer shakes his head,
His pen moving freely of his hand,
He acknowledges that tonight he will return to his wife,
He will have his meal and pray that his daughter is spared.
And I will return,
To the lair of the beast.

My eyes swollen.
My body imitating scaffolding; bones and skin housing the weary soul.
My hands shake as they struggle to grasp reality.
My cheeks stained by the violent, sempiternal flow of tears.
My ribs, forbidden from healing prior to the next wave of brutality,
Stood at an angle god himself could not manufacture.
My voice weak, desperate, pleading;
Determined.
I beg no one to liberate me.
I, myself, choose to betray your corruption.
I tell my story, though it is not a tragedy.
I showcase, unforgiving - as you were,
The ‘love’ you enforced upon me.
The bloodthirsty way your soul adored mine.
The months of seemingly incalculable assault
Starvation
Emotional torture
****
The autonomy you stole from me.
I want it back.
Instead it lies, at the bottom of your cobalt ocean.
Wrecked and never to be recovered.
Even in exposing you, and hand-delivering my message to you,
That you lost.
I do not regain the life you mercilessly devoured.

Instead,
I must rebuild my own life.
Despite and in spite of you.
Though the blue I once knew was bruised and afraid.
The Sapphire I learn is of unwavering strength, kindness
And peace.
I forgive you,
Though I hope to God that you rot in a place where blue
Seems inviting.

I am a guy.
Just a guy.
Not an "ummm...technically."
or "biologically female."
Not: "used to be a girl",
"Thinks she's a guy",
"Doesn't dress like a boy",
"What she got between her legs?",
"Wears makeup",
"Doesn't pass"-

Gender norms literally **** people.

Every "I'm sorry" is just a peeling paint job
over an intercity wall,
no one really wants to look at,
or fix,
or admit to.

This is not a problem I brought on myself.
My gender is not a problem,
You are the problem.

I'm not running from what's inside me anymore,
I know what's inside me,
I've made peace with what's inside me
It's the same old, same old,
with a new set of words
you ******* can't wrap your tongues around.

I don't care if you slipped up,
Fix it.
I don't care if you didn't know I was a boy,
Fix it.
I don't care about your cis guilt, cis excuses, or cis ignorance
Fix it.

Because you don't know the age limit
not to be Emily anymore.
The hundreds of dollars it costs.
Every: "Hello Ladies",
every "Sorry Miss",
every "What can I do for you Ma'm",
every "You'll always be my niece-"
"My daughter",
"My girlfriend".

The cis questions,
cis answers,
cis stares,
cis disinterest in my ******* feelings.

I am not going to hold your hand
and politely explain to you that
I
AM
NOT
MY
GENITALS.
That's your job cis people.
Fix it.

Every misgendering is peeking through the veil
of how people really perceive you.
It's all just a game they play along
with in your presence.
Going along with a trance they think
you've put yourself in.

They don't really see you,
When all it takes is
changing a single word
in one ******* sentence.
That would be no inconvenience to them,
But makes or breaks the world to you.
Covering it up with a strained smile,
Lying that it's fine.

Is it even a question that over 70%
of trans people **** themselves,
as opposed to 1% of the general population.
It makes so much ******* sense to me.

Because trans means knowing
I will never be properly gendered by a stranger,
Unless I get a **** I don't ******* want.
Being trans is waking up everyday
with the guarantee you can not
use the bathrooms in public.

Can't be called a guy
Hearing: "Emmett? That's a weird girl's name."
Having people ignore you
When you're on the verge of tears
begging them not to see
your soft curves and small chest and skirt
as one big sign that says 'SHE'.

Then being told:
"It's not their fault,
people just don't know."
"You have to be more understanding,
more patient -
be nicer about it."

How 'bout applying that to yourself?
Don't tell me I have to be kinder
about being denied my identity everyday.
Don't tell me to shut up about a system
so ingrained in my brain
I still misgender myself.

It's gaslighting,
A society denying reality
And telling us we are the confused ones.
The crazy ones.
For veering outside these neat little boxes
ahem, cages
of made up rules
they've tried to lock us into.

The consequences are absolutely deadly.
Is it any question
That people bleed themselves dry
Get drunk, get high
just to escape it all?

Then get thrown into a 'health care system'
for attempted suicide,
get misgendered by the nurses and doctors
who ignore why they're there in the first place.
Then denied hormones for their
'mental instability'.

We are thrown into a world of glass ceilings
and imaginary borders
with all too real consequences.

Make no mistake,
We are not dangers to ourselves.
You absolutely put us here.

Blame it on whatever generation or
individual you want,
but we are all participating in cisnormativity
if you are not constantly unlearning.

If you equate genitals with gender,
Ask what the baby's going to be -
As if it ******* matters -
Don't think to ask pronouns and get it wrong,
See every character, every face on TV
that doesn't look like ours,
have everything catered
to the way you turned out to be,

That's privilege is our danger.
The gaps in judgement
and consideration for our situations
is where we live
and our destined to fall.

Because when someone hits you with a car
It doesn't matter of they didn't see  you,
didn't mean to,
have never done it before,
are the nicest person in the world -
They ****** up.
And it still hurts.

Sure, if they meant to
it would be worse,
But I'm through with this rhetoric
about intent.

Don't think this is too drastic a comparison,
Gender norms literally kills people.
Every mark of 'self-harm' on our arms
Is a scar society put there.
Every trans suicide is a ******.

The question isn't why
we are killing ourselves.
It's how the ****
are we still alive.

The solution:
Electrocution.
I want my tukey fried.

The evolution:
Resolution.
I think I almost tried.

The conclusion:
Absolution.
I guess I haven't died.

From confusion
To inclusion
With those to whom I'm tied.

So i wrote this story about a boy who goes to a field when he feels upset and he talks to the sky. The story is told from the point of view of the earth, who the boy never talks/listens to. If there's a message it's that the boy needs to be able to move on from the follies of his adolescent life.



When Prof. Nwakamna read it, he thought that it was a really strong story of a gay couple raising a boy because one of the character's names was Sky. Freud anyone? I like that idea too. He suggested strengthening the relationship between the boy and the person telling the story (the earth in my mind) and remove that abstract concept of the sky and earth personified. I dont want to do that because the initial idea came from the boy talking to the sky and ignoring the love from the earth. It's tragic right? So i need to figure out how to make a compromise. I can strengthen the relationship to the speaker, and ride the line to two vastly different interpretations, or find whats working in each of those terrestrial/gay concepts and meet in the middle. Regardless, this is going to be a challenge that i look forward to.

They lead her out in irons
Like butchers lead a sheep
The screaming of the sirens
Awakes the town from sleep

On one arm walks an elder
On the opposite a priest
Behind, an executioner
His eyes raised to the east

Is this not what He wanted?
On Earth as in the sky
Just as Our Father promised
We'll see His enemy die

Around the grim procession
The people come in crowds
To see the wrathful session
Beneath the darkening clouds

Awaiting her arrival
At a place arrayed with skulls
For the sake of their survival
The congregation culls

Is this not what we wanted?
On Earth as in the sky
Just as Our Father promised
We'll see our enemy die

They hold her in position
Her face against a wall
Expecting some contrition
Expecting her to stall

But though her eyes show terror
They also show resolve
No apology for error
No need to be absolved

Is this not all they wanted?
On Earth as in the sky
Just as my father promised
They'll see his enemy die

His weapon at the ready
The headsman heaves a sigh
A lengthy hesitation
That makes her wonder why

She glances past her shoulder
At the killer in his place
And suddenly goes cold
As she sees her father's face

Is this not what you wanted?
On Earth as in the sky
Just as your Father promised
You'll see the enemy die

[Her] Coward!

[Executioner] *******!

[Elders] Demon ****!

[Crowd] ****! ****! ****!

×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

The old man holds a grimace
And tightly shuts his eyes
His soul he sees as sinless
As fast his weapon flies

there is a man in my mind
and i call him steve
from this man
i wish to be relieved
the things that he says are things
no man should say
but these are words that simply
do not go away

this man, steve, tells me to make others hurt
this man, steve, tells me to put my hand down your skirt
he tells me that being with my is your corruption
that our relationship will be your destruction

but i know that i love you
and from what you show, you feel the same
but i have been stuck with this man
in his silly little game

for so long.
please get steve away from me.
im tired.

Not too long ago one of my former co-workers posed a question to me:

CW: Do you believe in God?
RR: "Yes, I do."
CW: What makes you think there is a God.
RR: "All I have to do to strengthen my beliefs is look at my grandchildren."

copyright: richardriddle January 17, 2015

You said, in small text:

<p>OKAY. Let’s talk about this. </p>

<p>✨CW: transphobia, mental health stuff, strong language✨</p>

<p>[Reblog the hell out of this post. It’s about to be important].</p>

<p>I woke up this morning to my girlfriend, my partner-in-crime, my best friend, my favorite bean, sending me this photo. She couldn’t believe that it was real and thought that I was playing some sick joke. </p>

<p>Good ******* morning. </p>

<p>Listen up, whoever you are, you entitled little ****. Your opinions, attractions, desires, whatever they are - they DO NOT MATTER. Assuming, based on the context of your post, that you identify as a guy, let me just say this: </p>

<p>You are a small man. You’re using the guise of anonymity to objectify a radiant woman whose depth and breadth you can’t ever begin to comprehend - and I’m not just saying that because she’s mine. You’re also transphobic as **** - and clearly don’t understand that trans-ness and genitalia are actually (and often) far removed from each other. </p>

<p>I’d like to think that I don’t need to explain why the comment “your girl ain’t a girl no more” (in addition to being grammatically terrible) is NOT acceptable, but in case I do, here is MY two cents on the matter of MYSELF. </p>

<p>I fought for this body. I bled for this consciousness, I shined light into places in me that I didn’t know existed and found depression, dysphoria, trauma, and loads of anxiety. I nearly died for this body. If it hadn’t been for a select few people who saw me for the love I was worth, I wouldn’t be alive to write this post. That’s not an exaggeration, it’s a fact. </p>

<p>I’m telling you, stranger, this because there is more behind your words than you know. Each time you take your privilege and cishetero advantage for granted and allow misguided, bigoted words to fall out of your disgusting face-hole or fingertips, you’re reminding me of how I almost died for this body and consciousness. How my girlfriend and countless others like us have been subject to vast physical and mental torment for our queerness, our trans-ness, our SELVES.</p>

<p>I’m addressing you not as you, but as the mass of people you represent. I’m posting this on behalf of the 22 trans people who were murdered last year because of ignorance like yours. I’m posting this on behalf of feminine-identified people everywhere who deal with the wrath of objectification, sexism, and violence that your very actions embody and permit. </p>

<p>

cw: ****** assault and suicidal thoughts

I want to combust.
Not into the traditionally red flames.
Red is my mother’s color; because, it’s
the one that suits her the best.

But the reason why I hate it, is that in a deeper shade,
it is the same color that runs between her thighs
and stains the bedsheets we clean
when men decide that they’re more worthy.

I want my flames to be purple,
the same shade I have been fixed on since I was little.
Purple like the heroine I always dreamed of becoming,
and the edges of my vision when I

swallow the cleaning products,
count out the pills,
pull the belt tight around my neck,
grow so furious with myself that I wish I was just dead.

When I told my mother I wanted to die,
she screamed at me,
“How dare you think you’ve gone through so much,
when I’ve gone through so much worse!”

That is why
I want to explode
into flames
that dare to justify my own right to pain.

But purple is the same color
I see around my little sister’s face,
concern in her gaze
as she whispers, “I love you."

How could the world be so cruel?
Locking a man in our home,
a man who tries to take away every piece that makes us whole,
and forcing my little sister to witness me in such a state.

I can’t live up to being a
college student
daughter
big sister,

yet
I can’t bear forcing my little sister
to witness her big sister
lifeless in the room next to hers.

When I go out,
I want to combust into purple flames
because I’m so
terrified, furious, disappointed.

Unlike the men who built the college,
I want to die
without a trace,
and my ashes to disappear.

I guess
nothing would change after I die,
except there would be more
purple little bruises on my sister’s heart.

But would I become
greedy, disgusting, memorable
because I would
leave her?

Leave her like our father
who forgot our birthdays
or when it was his time for child custody,
but could never forget his favorite beer?

When my mother’s boyfriend tries to break into my room at night,
I beg the flames to take me.
I’m too tired, hungry, and weak
to believe I have a right to my own body anymore.

“Traitors,” I whisper to the flames,
hoping my emotions would be strong enough
to ignite myself
and disappear.

But the following morning,
my little sister would knock at my bedroom door,
greeting me with a sleepy smile,
and sitting on my bed to chat.

How could the world be so cruel
to my little sister by making me,
the girl who can’t even protect herself,
her protector?

“I missed you.”
She says, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I just saw you before you went to sleep.”
I reply.

Suddenly
the purple flames that I once called traitors
remind me they were with me the whole time,
burning resiliently.

Turn the "M" sideways.

Marshal Mathers
Marilyn Monroe
Marilyn Manson
Matthew McConaughey
Meghan Markle
Mac Miller
Melissa McCarthy
Mads Mikkelsen
Mandy Moore
Max Minghella
Malcom McDowell
                            
M.J                 (M) 13+(J) 10 = 23 (two threes) 33

Michael Jordan
Michael Jackson
Michael Johnson
Magic Johnson
**** Jagger
Marc Jacobs
Milla Jovovich
Montel Jordan

C.C               (C) 3+(C) 3 =  (Two Threes)

Chevy Chase
Cindy Crawford
Chelsea Clinton
Courtney ***
Chris Cornel
Christopher Columbus
Charlie Chaplin
Camila Cabello
Chris Cuomo
Chuck Connors

B.C or C.B               (B) 2+(C) 3 = (Two Threes)

Bill Clinton
Bill Cosby
Bradley Cooper
Benedict Cumberbatch
Billy Crystal
Ben Carson
Chadwick Boseman
Christian Bale
Chris Brown
Charles Bronson
Chris Benoit

                           Companies Hiding Evil Numbers

BBC=223   Skull and bones 322 (biblical)  just Google 322 bible. They are trying to become God's.  Eat from the tree of life and live forever.  What do you think that means?
WWE Flip the letters around and you get 333. For 33.3
CNN logo is CW for 33 (C)3 + (W) flipped is a 3
F.O.X in the hebrew alphabet is 666

cw: ****** assault, assault, abuse, slurs, chronic pain

It began with
you doing his laundry,
shouting back at him,
“Not an ounce of romanticism!”

Swears follow after
beneath your breath.
I stand
in the same hallway

watching your shadow
stretch through the doorframe
of the laundry room,
water gushing from the machine

into a
cacophonous
roar.
I wait,

but I remain
unnoticed
as you turn, legs bare,
and go into the bedroom.

I return to my own bedroom,
separated by the
war zones of the
empty pantry and cluttered den—

unpaid bills lay
strewn around,
the stuff he brought in from
when he first ruined our lives

sitting,
watching,
collecting
dust.

Lottery tickets
with their surfaces scratched away
and forgotten, just like
your dreamscapes.

I pause,
thirsty.
I dare to
step outside,

but I stop
when I hear your moans.
I’ve had enough experience to
after a few seconds

deduce if
the moans
are from
forced *** or chronic pain.

He laughs.
It’s the former this time.
I pause,
shaking.

Does it not
infuriate you
like how it does
to me?

You’re my mother,
and I’m your daughter.
He’s your boyfriend,
and he’s both of our assaulters, abusers.

When you first asked me
if I was okay with you
finding me a “new dad,”
you never asked me if it was okay if he

It’s just been
“One more month,
one more month,”
for years.

I’m so tired of your
performative screams
because we both know from experience
if you don’t scream well enough,

he’ll
beat you
and seek me
instead.

People from outside
said you're supposed to teach me
to be a woman
instead of a ****.

But I am instead
left alone,
asking,
"Does my mom still love me?"

What a romantic play you've put on--
to manage to fool
those who love you the most
certainly isn't easy.

i didn't stop bleeding for a long time.

i gave away my blood to the tub more times than i remember
countless trickles soaked into cotton ***** and band-aids and pant-legs
i watched my life swirl down the drain in the form of pale pink water

i gave these pieces of myself away
and now as some sort of punishment, or maybe blessing
i have to keep these silvery lines across my skin as a reminder
to never take my blood and my life for granted again.

Here’s something silly:
This ***** likes CW’s Supergirl!

Sassy, strong and successful
Word: She’s Super!

Simply, Sublimely subversive
Saving aliens from all areas

He loved me.
I pulled off my blouse.
He loved me.
My bra was next.
He loved me.
The camera shutter sounded.
He loved me.
I clicked send.
He loved me…

Pro-wrestling is something; I've always loved. I got made fun or teased. It was a world of action, and story lines. Somethings I loved, others were time killers in my eyes. I remember being a hulk hogan fan and then Ric flair fan. With Hogan you are strong doing what's right. Flair had it all women and money. He was a heel and Hogan was the good guy. After the 80s ended the late 90s would have the attitude era. With stone cold and the rock. So many wrestlers had gimmicks or themed for better words.

cw: domestic abuse

Despite being a girl,
I’ve always liked
video games
with the

bright colors,
challenges,
stories, and
heroes.

I used to prefer books
as I had more imaginary freedom
over the characters and scenery
until I learned my mom was screaming for him to stop.

But really,
the sound effects in video games
are amazing.
I feel like I’m my character!

Moreover, the music
for this game
makes me feel like
I really can save the world.

If I can save
their world,
then why can’t I
save ours?

I’ll study well,
make a vaccine,
save endangered wildlife from extinction,
solve world hunger.

I want to be a nameless hero
just like my favorite characters
who do it simply out of responsibility
instead of fame or fortune.

If I just
leave
my bedroom…
Can I really do anything

if I can’t even
save
my mom
from one man?

"Save the galaxy by…"
My character chimes.
No!
I’ll do it this time.

I’m done being a little kid.
I’ll save her.
But
how?

No book
video game
or class
has taught me how to save my mom.

The feelings
are returning now.
Dread, agony, and disgust materializes
as I recognize my face in the mirror.

Silence.
There is no character theme
if I disregard the sound of my mom crying.
Instead, I observe the boring figure in the mirror with no sharp angles or colors.

He left when I was deep within the pool of self-loathing,
claiming he’d get himself something to eat
as us women haven’t prepared food for weeks,
shelves bare.

When I leave my room for the first time in days,
my mom greets me with a smile,
pretending like she wasn’t just crying.
“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Sweetheart,” she says, voice wavering.
I can smell him on her.
“Do you mind making him food to eat?”
“No.” I reply as I peer into the empty cupboards.

cw: abuse

I dared to leave my bedroom
because today was your birthday.

Despite him saying it to you last night as he...
I wanted to be the first one this year who wished you happy birthday.

I heard you while I was standing in the hallway.
He told you I was there, but you still said:

“Just get me a
bright red thong.”

Why did you say that?
Why do you let him stay?

He left today just like any other
despite it being your birthday.

I’m tired of playing ignorant
and avoiding the topic in conversation

of making you food
that instead ends up in his mouth

of him feigning a crippling injury
while the drug-resistant infection consumes you

of him groaning in pain from those same “injuries”
while he beats us for writhing in pain from our own chronic illnesses

I realized
when he ordered pizza for himself last night:

He wants
the

food and girls
fresh

just like the
bright red birthday thong between your legs.

Your birthday is just
another excuse for him.

There once was a ****** from France
Who lived with his brain in a trance
  They called him insane,
  So he climbed up a crane
And they sadly unbalanced his stance

He lived on the ghetto side of town; working hard to barely get by. While she was born privileged without a worry. She always had her way, and never heard "no". She was always given opportunity; while he was fighting to fit in; survive in a tough cruel world.
Her family said, "she could be, and do anything." While his parents told him he was a no body and would not amount to anything. Who knew two people from different worlds would cross paths. He dreamed of being more, and wanted to do great things.
Their first encounter was at a college party, she didn't find him attractive but she did admire his honesty. No one ever called her on her crap, she was wrong but always justified it. He would not let her pull the wool over his eyes.
He was not one to fall in love when he loved and it failed he hit rock bottom hard. She would try to restore his faith in love but he was too stubborn in love with someone else. She wanted to help not quick to give up on people. Her fight for him to love her was a tough conquest since she made up her mind and knew what she wanted.

[CW - sh]

The first time,

Just needed them to notice

That I wasn’t fine

I was feeling hopeless

Didn’t really know what I was doing,

But I did it





Back then, I was fine with breathing

There was nothing wrong, wrong with eating

I didn’t really care for feeling,

But I was fine with the fact  

That my heart kept beating





The next time, the thoughts.

Too loud, drown them out

With the pain, with the hurt

A new cut, an alert

That once again, I needed help.





That time, still fine with breathing

However, had some struggles with eating

Wished I could just ignore my feelings

But I still found nothing wrong with

My heart still beat- beating



The third time, the worst time,

Chain reactions to and from

Watch as a big problem becomes

So. Much. Worse.





By then, I was aware of breathing

Had too many problems with eating

I hated all the things I was feeling

And I always had the knowledge

That my heart kept beating





The fourth time

Scar still lingers,

More annoying than stressful

First relapse in five months  





Five, six and seven,

Not a big deal, not deep

Faded away through sleep

But I was struggling.

There’s worse to come.









Then eight, nine, ten.

Worst times of my life

Friendships falling apart.

Thoughts ripping me apart

I was dying inside.

I almost died.





And at that point?

Oh, I wished my lungs would stop breathing

And wow, I was barely eating

Wished I could stop feeling

And almost stopped my heart from beating.





I’m doing better now, it’s true

Still fall sometimes, but still

I get back up, I keep going

Never alone anymore, maybe I never was

For for the first time, in a long time,

I’m glad my heart is beating.

(cw: kidnapping, ****** assault)

being paranoid is just being extra prepared for red dots, laser sights, red lights, blue lights. every

cigarette in the hands of passing strangers is an open flame and I dread like the pavement being burned and tread on, on the pavement, my feet walking

burned on the pavement, my feet tread

the cracks are inside dreading being stepped on

I test the walls by tapping on their shadows and humming over my shoulder, and without moving,

I imagine my escape at a circle of angles and determine the difficulty of each. the shadows merge and produce a man from a faceless corner

a shadow that had questions for me about a circle of angles

being extra prepared and protractor armed I scan and calculate for firearms and ****** features, hands in pockets, sharp objects, the signs of maybe a weak kneecap.

visions of epinephrine heroics, karate out of nowhere, super saiyan strength or sleeper cell ninja

the thoughts that come through tell me to stand my ground

in kind fashion, he asked for directions and left me disarmed

but once the dreams were done, the nightmare crawled out of the exhaust and the shadow grabbed from below

within seconds but feeling the eternal nature of prison cells, I was almost forced into the back seat, where I saw the scratches on the cushions as notches in hell

when the shadow stopped being a shadow I stopped being prepared

prepped and dreaded, treading in a circle of angles, desperately quiet,

the sound of rubbing nylon and heavy breathing to indicate conflict, cries for help escape after I do, looking for blue lights, sharp objects, red boxes and safety nets, threaded

light to knit out the shadows, weak in the kneecap dialing in

“Please give us your current location”

Myles Hall. Miles below, looking for my head in a circle of angles

I am from books; yellowed pages and black ink.
I am from shoes; leather and worn.
I am from dancing; Tap, jazz, and modern.
I am from Disney; DCOM's and the Disney Channel.
I am from television; Riverdale and Pretty Little Liars.
I am from Freeform and the CW.
I am from Bones and The Pretender.
I am from Pokino, and Forensic Files, and pasta.
I am from Ireland, Italy, and Germany.
I am from Belgium, France, and Grease.
I am from my bed in the morning.
I am from Science and Anthropology.
I am from painting and graphic design.
I am from Twizzlers, and Kit-Kats, and Oreos.
I am from apples and peanut butter.
I am from Okemos and Syracuse.
I am from ADHD and anxiety.
I am from happiness and the sense of calm.
I am from blue.
I am me.