Conceited-Self-Conscious

The fine line of her breathing oxymoron

comes from years of facing ugly truths,

comes from hours spent in mirrors,

and stores

just trying to look good.

Finding herself

in thousands of wasted li'l dollars.

The world tells her "ugly,"

and she's been instructed to accept it.

Been broken,

as she fights it,

So she learns to love herself.

Yes,

She puts on lace

and jewelry,

and makeup,

to feel good for her.

Yes,

sometimes she's down,

she's out,

and she might not see her beauty.

If the boys ran,

and good friends let her down gently,

and chatrooms were old friends,

Me

Myself,

and I

became trusted lovers—

23 years running.

If I don't love myself

Who do I really have?

I can't depend on the world

to love me like I deserve to be.

I celebrate moments of fine,

I rejoice in moments of "daaaaamn, shawty!"

'cause these moments, she's at her best,

And I want her to know it's a job well done.

Miss me with the commentary

that I'm just so damned conceited,

and that's such a bad thing,

just because I don't see your truth.

You feel me in ways

that drive my heart

and body

to madness.

I'm sorry if I act confused.

But I know one thing—

I'll always have myself.

I'm fighting battles one tube at a time,

and I wear my lipstick and shadow

with novice artist's pride.

I always wanted to feel good,

and I want the chance to exercise my right.

I don't expect all folks to get it.

I just want a li'l praise,

I just want to feel great.

I

just want to know that I fucking matter.

My pride is unapologetic,

my insecurity is real.

I will switch,

I will love myself,

I will take pride in my progress.

And someday, when I'm unstoppable,

you're welcome to be there

and watch me move on.