As a kid I danced on the livingroom carpet. The beat filled me inside and made me feel alive. The frenzy growing and hungry and ready to explode in a rhythmic symphony of movement. The burns from the carpet were battle scars revealing the truest form of myself. The me that is ready to sacrifice parts of my outside so that my inside stays strong.

The burns from the carpet could not compare to the burning glares I got from my friends. From my family. Their burning eyes enveloped me with shame. As I fell still and silent a rush of blushing heat washed across my skin. Their solemn stares were damaging the part of me that I can't touch. For a moment I stared back, afraid to move. A wounded animal.

The truest me is the me that doesn't care who they want me to be. It is the me that says while I love you and respect you, I also must love me and respect myself. Second guessing myself is second guessing everything you have raised me to be. The truest me hates the me who stood still; who elects to compromise any of the greatness I represent. The truest me loves my weirdness. He would take a carpet burn any day.