I told her there was very little of me left to love,
and with glassy blue-green eyes she replied
*There is enough

habbits don't all show through daily
Like a nail biter
Or the drug addict fighter
Unlike the masterbater
Some are shown over time
Like mine
all the betrayals
All the heartbreaks
All the times I sent a (:
When I knew.. It would lead her on
Or all the times
Hopes were built up
When they should have never been
Or thinkin more of me and I
Than of her and they
My habit is to be me
Which is awful as any person can be

I'm sorry that the pores that litter my untouched skin don't drip normalcy on everything my shaking hand tries, and fails, to grasp at.

I'm sorry that I'm not the mirror that you wished me to be.
when you looked into my eyes you hoped to see yourself,
but all you saw was broken pieces and sharp edges.

I'm sorry that you asked for galaxies and stars and I provided you with a black hole,
consuming my being in on itself,
leaving you cold and lifeless.

I'm sorry that I don't fit the mold that you've sculpted everyone else into,
I guess I'll remain a lump of clay,
unique not like the rest but also cold and quiet.

Maybe one day,
I'll stop being so sorry.