my little self wants to blame me for your life

Curious cats,

kitten heels and lip-oils,

i wear some crazy little shoes,

with insane eye makeup & a bright tiny soul.

My little self, the one that hides,

ego baby, she wants to punish

 the world when it doesn’t follow—

everything she wants.

Blame you for not worshipping my every one mistake, 

for wanting to ask questions,

discovering yourself in ways that make me afraid,

scared to not be the One that makes you see the world as yours.

Even then,

I know there is no chain I’d tie you down to.

Even when,

I know that there’s uncertainty in allowing.

Doing my hair, 

with all the little trinkets,

the toys and the ribbons and the obnoxious colors,

“piñatone” 

yeah, that’s how I like my aura.

All the attachments I can wear,

customize myself to maximize—

my niche,

hyper-individualistic styles, 

all still found on this World

Wide Web.

None of them will come with me,

not one belongs to me,

none of them remain when I leave 

to my dirty deathbed, 

full of decomposing particles,

none of them get to stay.

By my side,

you are

only going to be when we’re together,

¿what about our spirits, though? 

I know,

the material things make me giggle and smile, 

but none of them will define.

My identity or my life,

no name or label,

even when I decorate my presentation,

it’s just a case for my real body.

The one you can’t touch 

but it’s reachable and existing,

the one you can’t hold 

unless is with space & time—

that you could have if you tune into my heart.

My little ego wants to control me,

my little self wants to blame me for your life,

as if I had written what your path looks like,

go down 

the ways the circle moves you,

this is about me only when I’m loving the moment—

I’m alive. 

The moment I breathe in,

where we share a timeline,

no reason to play God like I made these characters, 

And if there are rules,

this is not my play.
My little self doesn’t know that there’s a bigger me out in here.

The one that doesn’t grasp for things to cling to,

no stickers or foundation, 

no pink dyes, no textiles

even if raw,

no supplies.

Naturally, 

I try to be pure and precise,

perfectly mapping my arc.

The calories of plant based foods,

even the sweat on my mat,

all of the releasing that exits my body,

but it was never mine.

little ms. veraacammi,

wants to build their brand,

even though they know it is not on their hands,

the adjectives that can tag them,

veraacammi is a concept that my Self knows was made.

Assigned at birth,

the fate— 

not a puzzle I got figured out yet.

To predict my destiny and alter the outcomes,

because fear does not want me to cry disappointedly sad,

no mind how many candles and the jars full of spells,

the reality is I can only become conscious and aware.

Unconditional love,

sounds smoother than it rolls,

but God is the One 

I know—

This time it’s not about the narrative I wish to publicize.

my little self, 

the one who names herself, all the words from literary works,

big theories and constructed concepts.

little self doesn’t know that there’s nothing to avoid—

even if life is on the other side of that door,

if it is meant to:

Through that doorway you are gonna pass;

Indefinitely,

until it places

U where U R