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To be naked makes me realize that when I feel nervous and feverish, I am at my best but at my worst because the anxiety has set in and I am moving and creating. I feel like Stephen Spielberg…but without his face, ha. Only with his emotion. My mind moves fast and flashes through stories that make me feel ashamed to be called a friend, a sister, or even an enemy. I become afraid of me and I do not want to add these ideas to the world, but much like Terry McMillian, Ntozake Shange, or the lady that wrote the Bluest Eyes…Toni Morrison. I have something that a black woman needs to say I have a story that a black woman needs to tell. In the words of R. Kelly, “When a woman’s fed up, it ain’t nothing you can do about it” and “Don’t talk about it, be about it”. Consistently breaking my own heart without meaning. I wake up, go to work, clock in, and leave with the dissatisfaction of thinking to accomplish things that I have not the time for as I sit here writing tonight I know that the “Fever for the Flavor” of expressing my life is too prevalent to miss. I walk out and I am too naked to expose anything else. I have no reaction, I have no reply, and I do not need explanation. You have seen it all. My body unwashed, my thoughts unclean, my soul so pure. You have been unauthorized and caused me to write into a pain that is greater than any mistake I can make. You listen to the stories and pass your ideas around never really telling me what I am facing. I have seen the real you and you have exposed, your anger where I saw joy.  You have exposed your sorrow where I saw pain. I clench my heart only to remind myself that I was loved once, I am loved now, and I still have love to offer for the future, I am not bitter, only bitte. Grateful even. I walk on a path that is suited for me. You want to push against my grain so that I can show a face that does not exist in me. If it does then I am forgiven…by me. I have walked naked alone. Only followed by my shadow and my full body carries my son…my sun. 

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