Letting you in

Let me tell you some things
Let me let you in..

My favourite scent is of six Midvale Avenue at Christmas time. It smelled of zimtsterne baking and the Christmas tree alight with Roman candles. It sounded like love and laughter, my whole family coming together in this funny white brick house with a big rose garden. Everyone had a red car. My brother and I used to leave our favourite shoes out for Saint Nic to bring us the gifts we hoped for, I’d always ask for books. I learnt to make fresh wreaths and I always loved wrapping presents. 

Smoke and cinnamon.

Sometimes I’ll have a cigarette to feel closer to my Opa. I wish he could see me now, I think he’d be proud to know that I have such interest in my heritage and that I’m always chasing my dreams. I lost him when I was little, he smoked like a chimney in the wintertime. I miss him every day. He was so in love with my Oma. I’ll never forget the way he’d pronounce her name, ‘Rosemarie’ in heavy accent. He valued knowledge and taught me to value words. 

I got my creative genes partly from him and partly from my father who nearly died when I was ten, he’s a different man now but I love him all the same. 

I never visit my parents because I loathe where I grew up. 

I was raised to love hard; a blessing and curse. Now I believe that’s what makes the world go ’round. Everyone has a soulmate you just have to find them..

I still don’t know how to pronounce my name properly. My parents say both Ka-meal and Ka-mill. I prefer the latter, it’s more dainty. 

I have an ongoing battle with my wardrobe. I’m always torn between looking classically feminine or punky and boyish. It sounds silly when I write it down. 

I sleep with rain sounds playing because I love listening and don’t like being alone. Inflection is everything in conversation and I never go anywhere or do anything without music. I think it keeps me sane, probably saved me more than once. 

I shower in dim lighting only and sing all the while. Though my voice isn’t trained and I probably sound awful, but it makes me happy.  

My eyes get bluer when I’m excited and the same goes when I cry. Also when it’s summertime, I’m not sure how it works, my mothers eyes are the same. 

I’m so scared that you won’t like me in reality..

Because in text you don’t have to hear me talk or laugh

Or hear me singing in the shower, ha ha

Learn my mannerisms

Notice that I touch my hair constantly

And start getting cross when I’m hungry

And roll my eyes a lot because people frustrate me

And that when I get nervous I’m really bad at holding eye contact

What if I bother you?

What if you don’t like how I walk or how unfit I am?

What if you don’t like how easily distracted I am by a pretty pair of shoes or a great haircut?

Or how I predominantly use chopsticks and slurp when I eat ramen?

What if you don’t like how I frown when I read?

Or how I speak a running commentary when I watch films?

What if you don’t like the perfume I wear?
(Guerlain, la petite robe noir —by the way)

What if my love for high heels drives you insane?

Or if my vanity is irritating?

Or if you hate me in my comfy clothes?

What if I talk too much
Or too little?

And I overanalyse every aspect of my life. Just in case you can’t tell. 

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