You don't want me.
I'm like an old, worn out journal. A thousand emotions scrawled over every page.
Within my pages, there are letters that I'll never send, and secrets I can never share because I'm scared you'd never understand.
I am the description of a lonely heart. Dreams, thoughts, and memories fill every corner of my mind, pushing against the interior of my skull trying to break free.

I'm falling apart.
I've been trampled over and left bent and folded in ways I'm not sure can be fixed.
Every day I scribble out another dream—knowing that I'll never obtain something so beautiful.
I rip out entire pages of memories I'd rather forget.
I've been left out in the rain, soaking up the sky's tears. Sometimes there is so much pain inside me that I can't keep my head above the water. Sometimes I lose myself in that swirling black ink and drown in my own overwhelming thoughts.  
I am the definition of a soul that belongs nowhere at all.

You don't want me. I am only fragments and crumpled pages of a girl come undone.