This is Me

My name is Mariama Suwaneh.

I was born on April 5, I’m eighteen years old, I am 5’3.75” but I tell everyone I am 5’4”.

I am terrible at soccer, I love the Spanish language, I don’t really like chocolate,

And I am a sucker for boys with great smiles who make me laugh.

I believe in love, I believe in God, and I believe that Tu Pac is not really dead and will pop back into reality during the World Cup, I

I am intelligent and witty, I am outspoken and loud, and  I have an irrational fear that the moment I stop talking is the moment I am forgotten

Perhaps this is the reason I would rather be hated for being obnoxious than allow myself to go unnoticed

This is me.

But heaven forbid I become normal and inject myself with society’s vaccine for creativity and uniqueness and become another prototype.

Hands fully equip with retractable flat irons ready to manipulate my curls into thousands of tight ropes

Gut slowly being transformed into a vat full of quicksand

Body slowly sinking within itself to ensure the perfect hourglass figure

Breasts a C or D cup, booty perfectly plump

(Face coated in brightly colored plaster)

Vocal chords programmed to vibrate only when spoken to and only enough to answer the question

Dreams slowly configuring themselves from passions into whatever makes the most money

As if money can buy happiness

And happiness is a superficial butterfly who’s wings lie with fake smiles in order to fly higher


I love the thought of falling in love one day

Of finding someone who is so different from me that they are perfect for me

Someone who sees my painting hanging on the wall and can read all secrets behind my monalisa smile

someone who sees the broken prism inside me but can somehow still see the light

I love puppies

I love music

I love the smell of apple cider on a cold winter morning

I hate complainers but

I love the way the sun feels against my face

The way it waves hello and doesn’t take into consideration my past mistakes, my present confusion, or my future insecurities

This is me

And I

I try to be honest  

Open myself up to the world and allow people close enough to feel the heat radiate off my body

But I,

I have scars that spread through my body like cancer,

Insecurities that strangle my breaths,

Fears like air bubbles in my blood stream slow my heart beat,

Sometimes I flat line

I don’t allow myself to cry as often as I should

This is me

But heaven forbid I become normal and inject myself with society’s vaccine for creativity and uniqueness and become another prototype.

Because the only thing more terrifying than being yourself, is being hashtag the same as everybody in a sea of hashtag everybody else.




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