A letter to myself, not written in response to anything:
Sometimes I sit and look at my life of rare, ridiculous and priceless experiences, comrades and acquisitions and I think to myself…
Yes, you silly child, This is the adulthood you wanted.
You wanted a body you felt powerful and sensual in, you wanted to be surrounded by fascinating people and artifacts, you wanted to love and be loved by people that were worthy and made you feel worthy. You wanted to create and help hang stars in the very sky.
You wanted soo much, but…
You never wanted a mansion with a pool,
silly designer appliances and toys, small thighs and smaller feet.
You never wanted to be blinded by camera flashes and shouts when you left your house because you were beautiful once upon a time, but they still think about your every flaw in comparison to yourself.
That was a lie. It was all the lie you told me over and over.
All you ever wanted was to be strange, rare and happy.
You’re welcome. I got these things for you, I made them with blood, sweat and soo many tears, I manufacture them daily with every effort I can muster.
This. Is. Your. Birthright.