I am damaged. I am flawed. I probably have more baggage than an international airport on Christmas Eve. I destroy everything I touch. No amount of make-up conceals the plague I seem to carry that slowly creeps and engulfs everything surrounding me. I live my life watching everything wither and die, crumbling into nothing. And the worst part is, I did this to myself, and continue to do it in a vicious cycle of self destruction.

I watch my children, so young, pure, innocent, beautiful and wonder how long before I infect them as well. They seem to be the only ones unharmed by my degenerative darkness. My only successes in life are professional and academic. I strive in those environments while everything else falls apart. In fact, the worse my personal life is, the better I do in school and at work. I am due for another promotion in a few weeks, and knowing myself, regardless of where I end up for grad school, I will do well there too. And then what?

I will get another degree, work my way up the beaurocratic ladder that never seems to end, and live among ashes in the after hours. Diligently sweeping it all up so my children don’t see what mommy has burned this time.

But no amount of cleaning can undo the mess. It’s like spilling red wine on the carpet. You can’t scrub the stains away, and if you do it often enough, it saturates into the floorboards. Depending on who you ask, I have been imbuing my carpet since birth. Maybe the ashes will soak it up.

It is not something I can remedy. I was born this way. Destructive, blemished beyond repair, all wrong. A burnt carcass masked with perceived beauty. Until anyone gets close enough to investigate and the stench becomes too strong.

My friends say I am quirky. That’s one way to put it. My daughter calls me silly. That’s another way to put it. I guess everyone loves euphemisms and won’t say what I really am. Ghastly.