The Morning After Pills That Gave Me Life

I’m walking to the gym after a night of perfect debauchery. It is the second day of the New Year and already I’m wondering how I will survive it.

I am happy and sad at the same time as the rays of the sun radiate my dark brown skin and parched gray tresses.

Yes, I am one of the lucky ones. My dark and lovely strands have been cursed by the jealous gods and converted to the very opposite of what beauty is supposed to mean.

I am depressed and lonely. I wish I could be holding hands with a god. A man who resembles a being far too superior for understanding.

I looked different back then. I felt even better. I was sure of who I was and why I chose to be that person. But the years go by and the layers are thick with confusion as try to grasp the seams that are coming undone right before your eyes. And every one else’s.

You are someone else that has taken her place and you wish she would leave so you can get back to normal but there is no such thing anymore.

I need to exercise my mind and emotions. I have to grasp the handles of the elliptical as my eardrums pound with the escapades of Drake. I love him. I privately pretend that he wrote “Make Me Proud” after a chance meeting while I was on vacay with my girlfriends in SoBe.

I was lounging at the pool of The Fontainebleau and he approached me. I am laid out with my eyes facing the sky. The heat is priming my nice, wet, light-skinned and well-proportioned frame.

Yes. My skin is the color of a freshly brewed Cafe au lait and my dark, wet, and shiny wavy hair is splattered all over me.

This scenario has to work based on my assigned attributes because they can’t work with me now. It’s such a shame that I have to admit that I don’t feel adequate in the shell of my birth.

Actually what’s even worse is that this is happening at a time when it should absolutely not. But it doesn’t happen a lot. Just when I haven’t caught the roving eyes of certain kinds of men for more than six months or so.

Or she could be a dark-skinned chameleon with a sharp-witted Afro and bosoms that overflow at every turn under a fitted T-shirt.

I want to be any of those but I am not. What I am is a mid-lifer fast walking through a neighborhood where I was almost mugged who suddenly stumbles upon a colorful mess.

I stop and gaze with wonder. I’ve never seen this color combination before. It’s pretty and ugly at the same time.

I’m happy to see them all. They greet me with that level of familiarity — the coaxing and the prodding. The assurance that no matter how bad things get — there is always a way out. If you dare.

She’s a she. I know she is.

There is enough around me to give me pause for thought. I can’t contemplate such things because that would mean that something is fundamentally wrong with me. But, there is something fundamentally wrong with me — so why not?

I’m lost in mental pursuits of why I am so drawn to the site that someone thrashed with evidence of doom as I pretend that I’m simply going through the motions of being a creative, passionate artist who can’t just turn away from the scene of a crime.

These pills were starting to pump blood in my veins. Suddenly my fading vision became clearer, my dull skin absorbed the nutrients from my revitalized pores.

This was supposed to happen.

My internal fight ended with me collecting the image of rejected pills on the side of the road so I could instinctively prove who I am and who I always knew I was.

A survivor who lives to tell another tale. Mission accomplished.

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