Im reading my old poems,
and i know her...
but she doesn't know me.

I know her heartbreaks,
insecurities,
and lack of trust to those around her.

but she doesn't know me.

She doesn't know my heart filled with love,
because i love myself first.

my understanding that perfection is nonexistent,
and how striving for such rips you apart.

or my willingness to trust until its broken,
because everyone deserves a chance.

I know her,
and i'll forever understand her.

But i don't think she'd understand me.