I am the Experience

Prose

I have been called beautiful and pretty, which is it, beautiful or pretty?

I have been called loud and too much … told to ‘down boy!’

I have been called pliable and gullible

I have been vilified as a betrayer and a bitch

I have been degraded to victim and praised at the same time like a martyr

Labelled as not nice, not good, angry, hurtful

And at the same time, been call too good and too kind, too compassionate

Belittled to being called a stupid, silly girl

I have been thrashed about like clubbed meat and felt it inside, felt my inner prostitute weaving her magic into what she wants and my saboteur sabotage my opportunites

I was called weak and always, always called strong

I have poems written about me telling me to go fuck myself…all whilst also being adored and worshipped

I have had letters written to me asking me to fall at my knees, and apologise like the heathen that I am

I have been screeched at for being selfish and self-centred

I have been called wise

I have been called lazy,

Sultry,

Bashful,

Loving,

And, and, and … So many things

So many ways

So pointless in its expression

Purposeful in experience

What that purpose is?... still eludes me

Every explanation is still lacking in its full truth

Understanding is a useless endeavour

The only thing I am… is the experience.