I'd like to write something beautiful. But finding the beauty inside myself is challenging. And one should never 'fake it.'

I'm also unavoidably working class and from London. I struggle to escape the bawdy, cynical, mildly prejudice but nonetheless socialist tendencies of my youth, culture and family. I embrace and fight it with equal intensity.

Subjected from inception to a fate of domesticity and thunder, I slid like land into sea. One spirit missing presumed buried. Where's the beauty in that?

My stricken weak face worn and adorned with basin like tears. Ask the child I was or became to express the truest part of self, then watch the stung thoughts creep their way to this rotten core. 'Who am I? A fucking idiot, a useless, worthless, vile cunt.' Where's the beauty in that?

Panic driven masked flowers. Self deprecated sugar induced self hatred. Eat, prey, contract, expand  waistlines, hairlines and spirit. Addicted to a solitary aspirational twisted value. One that kept the shadow from the door. Where's the beauty?

Sadness, loathing and despair accompany the unnatural disaster I never wanted to be. I ain't an 'against all odds' success. Nor a victim under duress.

I'm an aufentic fucking mess. Am I O.K with that?

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