Written: 9/19/17 Published: 11/29/18

I used to be jealous

of the girls that got ‘knocked-up’

in their teens. I used to

want to be the one

who struggled through

life yet barely

got above their parent’s income.


I used to wish

That I was homeless,

poor, black, or uneducated.

I used to yearn for

a struggle that was unlike

any other yet so much

like the average.


Because then, I believed

I would have a story to tell.


No one wants to hear about the

rich white girl from

Charlotte who got to

where she was because

her daddy had money.


They want to hear about the

girl who grew up in a home

where her mom was a drunk

and her dad sexually assaulted her

every night, but she overcame.

She got to where she was

in spite of her background.


And for some reason, I believed

that my privilege was more of

a burden than anything because

it wasn’t interesting. That

my story was so boring,

so typical, so easy.

Who wants to read that?


No one is thinking,

“wow this will be a great

story one day,” while they are

struggling to make ends meet.

It just sorta happens.

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This post is part of the “I am a writer” posts, which can be found here, the “My works” posts, which can be found here. To see all posts, click here.

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