I love too much, but not too often.
My heart gets broken, but I keep going.

I am transparent, iridescent like glass,
So when you strike with the force of a hammer you leave more than a crack.

My heart is fragile, a bird with a broken wing.
I thought you would fix it and make it continue to sing.

I stand tall and confident in all my feelings,
Something that’s scary to you who is not used to these dealings.

I feel shame for the way I am.
Feeling love and passion for you that I wish I could bury in the sand.

A treasure left for you to uncover,
Not something I should have exposed to you undiscovered.

I tend to frighten away the one my heart wants to hold,
Do you see me as crazy, uncontrolled, too bold?

I often take broken loves words and wear them as scars.
Reminders of lessons unlearned and love unforetold by the stars.

I try their words on as an outfit of choice.
If I can change who I am, maybe for once someone will appreciate my voice.

But often times it’s too late.'
My true self exposed in revelations of hate.

No matter how hard I try to mold and bend,
I can’t change who I am, I can’t please every man.

But for some reason I never stop trying.
I can never give up my mind and hearts constant fighting.

I literally drive myself insane for a chance at true love.
I let my mind run wild for an ecstasy that will never come.

Because if I am changing who I am to achieve what I was fooled to see as true,
I’m mistreating myself and I assault my love leaving it ****** and bruised.

It’s funny how the world can constantly build me high,
But it only took you to send me crashing through the sky.

And when I fell and hit the ground,
The armor I built was shattered around.

Underneath it all I could finally see,
The only thing that remained intact was the original me.

I, myself, am my greatest force of nature.
And when I try to change who I am I’m in immediate danger.

The second I wear a mask to fool someone I love,
Is the second that my love is broken, recanted, torn up.
It’s not love if I’m not myself.
It’s not true if I pretend to be someone else.

I’m done being a victim in your insecure schemes,
But I’m also done pretending I walked away perfectly clean.

Yes I am hurt, and yes I wanted our love to be,
But I won’t sacrifice myself for you I’d rather let you go free,
Because somewhere, out there, there’s someone who wants me.

All my imperfections and everything you made me see as faults,
I consider beautiful, rare, a gift to make someone’s world halt.

I’m not sorry for the way I express myself.
I’m just sorry it has to be for someone else.

I love too much, but not too often.
My heart gets broken, but I, I keep going.

Dad liked the bottle so much he never let go. I didn’t enjoy the taste, some kind of stale licorice, bitter, thick, and smelled of death. That’s how he died. Kidney failure, liver damage, yes, but choking on his ***** is what did him in. Since Mom has been gone longer than I can remember, he was alone that night, and I don’t want to take responsibility, since I was out with friends, but I can’t help myself. Not that I feel bad about it, I’m glad. And I think I feel more funny about that than not being there to see it finally happen. You can consider me an orphan, now, I guess. Technically, I have no parents, and that’s what an orphan is, right? Excuse me if I sound rash, but I’m supposed to feel something, aren’t I? I never loved-loved my father. But, with the help of my mother, he gave me life, after all. He always said, when he wasn't drunk, that I had her eyes. Her eyes, I’ve been told, were beautiful. You can look into them and forget your birthday. These eyes of mine have gotten me in trouble, just like Mom. It’s her fault, that’s what I say. If she hadn’t left that night, she would still be around, and Dad wouldn’t have had to find love at the bottom of a bottle. I hate her. I hate her for leaving. I hate her for making me me. I’m alone now, and it’s all thanks to her. This is my strongest feeling, when I should be mourning my poor father, I’m hating my wicked mother, who left our home. Nothing will bring them back, neither of them. Even if she’s still alive today, she is as dead as Dad. They were weak and so am I. Does that mean I hate myself? That smell, it’s not smelling so bad now.