December 10, 2018

I’m not Sorry that I’m “Too Much to Handle.”

I am not sorry you think I’m “too much” to handle.

Too intense.

Too crazy, untamed, and wild.

I am not sorry these gypsy bones were birthed, unwrapped boxes, freed from boring ribbon perfection.

Here’s the deal.

I am not sorry. Not one single bit.

I am not sorry for laughing too loud and spitting on the ground.
For being aggressive and dropping f-bombs.
I am not sorry for telling you what I need, hands waving, “I am here.”
I am not sorry for talking all night about feelings, so we wake up a little sleepy, but free from the nightmare of resentment.
I am not sorry for emotional rollercoasters, because I never asked you to save me.

Did you forget you chose this madness?

And I’m not mad.

You fell into these precious eyes,
dripping with starry wonder,
spinning circles of seduction,
until we were both drunk with passionate love.

I told you I was a hurricane, but you just laughed, “Aw, isn’t she cute?”

I am not sorry you became addicted to the sweet smell of my skin, a drug you thought you could control.

I am not sorry you got caught in my web of enchantment, because I am not a spider and you are not a fly.
We are human beings, with choices.

You always had the power to say no.

I’m not sorry for my rage when you tell me to smile or stare at my ass like choosing prime rib from a butcher.

I am not sorry for crying when I’m sad, happy, angry, or just because it feels good.

Vulnerability is our superpower.

I’m not sorry I “outplayed a player,” because I was never trying to win the game.
In fact, I was not playing a game at all.

I’m not sorry for holding my signs high, middle fingers pointed at authority that told us to shut up.

Talk softer. Stay pretty, in your lane of giggles and Barbie Doll lies.

I’m not sorry I chose to splatter paint, instead of blending nice colors between conventional lines.

I’m not sorry for my endless questions, wrapping uncomfortable mystery around everything you swore to be certain.

I’m not sorry that I love death, talk to trees, read in graveyards, and snuggle with darkness—yours and my own.

I am not sorry that I love myself enough to stop apologizing for no goddamn reason.

For all the little girls and grown women who were taught they should be “sorry.”

It is time. To stop the madness.

You are the “one” the world has been waiting for, rising from ashes to go light sh*t up.

With a love brave enough to welcome demons around the table, because everyone’s hungry and needs to be heard.

We are not sorry for existing.

Never again will we dim our blazing shine.

We are only sorry that we ever said we were sorry.

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