Today is my birthday and this was me when I was born. I was two months early – three pounds and one ounce. What you don’t see is my identical twin sister next to me. She died during birth.
People often wonder why I’m so feisty, why I don’t surrender. Surrendering means death.
Small girl standing her ground, hands on hips, and a very loud mouth.
That’s me, and my mouth has run me into loads of trouble.
I told someone the other day that I was born with my foot in my mouth. You can’t see the cast in this picture, but my right knee was hyper-extended at birth and bent toward my face, so technically I was. More than once my sass has landed me into a trash can. I got out every time, covered in garbage, and had one last thing to say.
I imagine writing will probably get me in trouble and cause pain too. I don’t like pain, never have, but it shows I’m still kicking. I’ll keep running into the fight, into the pain. I don’t know any other way.
I’m alive, and fuck – oh fuck – it hurts.