4.9
December 30, 2020

Dear Society, I Refuse to Fit into your Little Box.

I am 50 shades of paradox.

Do not try to fit me into a box!

I am every inch your typical “blonde bimbo“—

a crazy mix of vain, stupid, and confused.

Yet, you are bedazzled by the star-quality

of my brain’s creativity.

I am hot, angry lava spurting out of an active volcano.

I am the sweet lick of ice cream—Oreo or pistachio,

whichever tickles your fancy.

Some days, I am black.

Other times, I am white.

You either like my tack,

or you hate my very sight.

I am happiness bursting out of a wrapped present, 

and melancholy of a struggling peasant.

The high of a Thai massage,

and the torturous, animalistic pain

of the final bon voyage.

I am the repressed nature of a trophy wife,

the tension of a midwife,

the danger of a pocketknife.

I am caution thrown to the wind,

the aftertaste of tamarind.

I am also the prudishness of a Catholic nun—

known to be the serial killer behind the untimely death of fun.

I am proudly Seychellois.

Can’t you see? I carry the coco-de-mer heavily on my back.

But, I am tarnished by Western cultures.

I am British with a thick Creole accent.

I am the hazel eyes of the Europeans,

the spitfire and spiciness of the Latinas,

and the kinky, unruly hair of Africa.

Do not try to define me!

The world goes as far as your eyes can see,

but I have no boundaries.

I am not done yet.

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