That's not even the right word. Everywhere now is the pressure of reflected identity. Am I self identifying appropriately, is my branding on point, are my eyebrows of fleek?
All of the space between perception and projection is a haze of misinterpretation. This smog of doubt- is it on the ears or the mouth, this confusion.
***
I am smashed these days between myself identity and my identifiable self. I smear the lines and shift through shadows. It's tranquil and I am training myself to be strong in body as in mind because birches I can. This unapologetic selfhood is birthright and I'd rather shit in public than pretend to be concerned over coddling your perception of what I am, than being who I am.
It's not on me that I am your red hot dream; that I bring out your daddy urge to tell me to be safe out there. It's not on me that you've never touched a bike a bike as big as mine, ol boy you have no idea how big my bike real is.
It's not on me that I do pull ups and run in eight pound boots. You can state that I look like an athlete despite the tats the short hair the red lips the black stilettos. I can see that. I can also see you seeing me thinking, hoping, believing that in not as smart as you.
I get up each day and make choices. It's alright because peace comes to the warrior through the dance of the grouse.
What you see is not what you think you see. You see what you think you see. I see both. 
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