Can I write? Read short piece of my writing?

This is a repost, since I did not get enough answers the last time I posted it. Thanks!

I'm very insecure about my writing, and have many friends that boast about theirs, so that I feel I will be the 'wanna be' writer in my group if I am not good enough.

A passage from my potential novel.

Short. Perhaps confusing.

All I want to know is if I have potential as a professional writer.

Note: --- is placed there for the purpose of being put on Yahoo only.

Thank you!!!!

(PS. This is not the beginning of my novel. I do not tend to write in chronological order, though I HAVE organized my plot and ideas elsewhere).

The roads below were never abundant in vehicles, and the tar was a twinkling, black crystalline in the summer. A hot bed for the misshapen, misused bones of ballet dancers, that seemed to rattle and scurry across the ground whenever the wind would pick up at three in the morning and make sounds against tin cans. These were the fables mothers told their children at night in the city of Trevelyan. “If you don't become a great dancer, my love, you will be thrown off of the Cherry Row bridge and be battered by the bones of deceased dancers before you. So you be good, work hard, and don't gain weight”. It was a sad kind of world within Trevelyan City. But a pretty kind of sad, they say. The twilight above was, in some places, a solid grey-scale, and in others a wicked grove of blues and purples. The girl on the Cherry Row bridge could not decide which was the norm. A year ago, she would have never believed in blue or purple. Black. And white. And grey. Those were what constructed the life she had been living for the past seventeen years. However, today- today she had came to the Cherry Row bridge with blue in her eyes and blonde in her hair. She felt unnatural. The sun had moved to the west, and was dimming to a sensual, cloudy lemon. It made her glow with the exasperation she was cradling behind her breast. Her face was dewed in a thin glisten, but she wouldn't bother to retouch her make-up like she was preached about at school to do in such situations as today. She didn't care how she looked in this moment. This was just a moment.

The girl gripped the railing. Hard.

“I am not to be manufactured” she said into the twilight. Her body lifted. Her feet found the bottom level of the railing, almost slipped, but maintained the position eventually. “I am not to be some professional whore of yours, you city of Trevelyan. To be packed with words and feelings and values that I do not mean”

The girl was crying. It was a bizarre sensation. Moist. Off-putting. Her mascara leaked. It was a shame.

She was on the other side of the railing before the sun had totally collapsed into the ocean.

“F--uck you, Trevelyan” she muttered. “The universe does not get to decide my time. I am my own clock. I am time. I am not your b---itch”

She tightened her fists so that the veins in her wrists pressed into the cool mental of the railing. At least, when everything in her world was monochrome, everything had made sense. Now everything was muddled together. The sky was in two different sorts. Her skin was grey and her hair was an odd shade of yellow. The streets were black but the litter was a neon, brilliant red cola can and an orange bubblegum wrapper in haste for shelter from the oncoming downpour. You could feel it in the air whenever it was ready to rain. There was a silent pulse to it. A thump.

She thought this would be the best way to go.

Sticking out her tongue, she tasted the first drop, and it tasted like a lullaby she used to know.

“Gabriella” Her head snapped down too quickly, making it click. She didn't have to turn around, because that voice was just as delicate and just as clear as the last time she heard it. It cut right through the rain, despite its lack of throaty noise “If you do not get down from there this instant, I swear to all that is real in this mind f---uck of a universe you'll be making me your murderer. And I do not accept that.”

His voice was barely a breath. A whisper. Yet it was the loudest thing beside her jittering heart. And he had never sounded more of a man to her than in that moment. He didn't have to be rugged or demanding. His gentle, introverted charm was enough to make her hesitate about her decision.

His voice. His voice was the only thing that tied her to this city.

And talk about dramatic timing. She resisted a groan.