Self. Aware.

I am aware that I am there
and sometimes here.
I have confidence that this is the case.
I hate my face and in fact most places about my here-ness.
Is my face that I see what you see too, do I know what you see when you say you do
know me?

I have confidence in the floor being down and space being up, but my confidence drops when I realise I suck
as a person,
to me that is, maybe not to you who says you
know me. Do you?

If my perception is blue then yours might be green,
or a little marine, kind of turquoisey colour.
Should I worry that mine is slightly less yellow than yours when you say you
know me. Should I?

Can you tell that I think this?
Can you see the bubble of explosive kind of muddle that I carry within my face that I hate, in my case, maybe not yours, but can you hear the kafuffle?
Or do I seem calm, relaxed, not bothered, kind of whatever, its fine, and do I shine as somebody who has more confidence than Bobby shouting at the camera saying ‘give us your bloody money!’. Surely not.

Have you got
that comfortable feeling when you’re around me, thinking this gal is sorted, surely she can’t be
a paranoid freak full of self loathing and doubt, wondering what this face is really all about.
Can you catch onto my awkwardness and that I’m trying to stop it by piling down vodka with one hand in my pocket,
and fag after fag is rolled to hide the lack of pride in, well, me.
You see
after this next double I won’t really care.
I’ll not remember to obsess about my hair, my stance and my stride, my strange little mind or whether you find
me disturbing. I’ll stop being stressed about being obsessed about how you see me and if I see me too, like you do. Cos you know me. Don’t you?


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