Updated: Feb 26, 2019
I feel you. I can only imagine what you’re going through. What the people in your head are telling you to do. How bad you just want people to see you.
To hear you. To feel you. To love or accept you. Ms. Hill, I feel you. I find myself, at your feet, and inhaling your femininity like the outside air. Yours is a strength which has carried me through the years. I feel the pain in your tone. Your fury chills my skin. It radiates my throat and makes me tremble and blush. I feel your voice in my spirit. I feel your pain in my chest. I feel the lump in your throat, the depth of your heart, and the jumbled words that attempt to escape your subconscious, sound conscious, and struggle for coherence in this politically incorrect world.
I can’t create music. But I can feel when is true. I wish I could tell you how badly I understand you. I feel 12 years old when I hear you sing. I feel ugly, I feel awkward, I feel my skyscraper height. Unpopular, unaccepted, and yet, still real. If I could sing, I know I’d sound like you. I feel like you. I feel true.