The devil is in my details.
I used to always speak too soon
for everyone I thought I knew
giving the benefit of the doubt
for those that had no good inside or out.

Such a liar was my father
so lonely he forgot I was his daughter
breaking down the foundation
I told myself could never happen
starting the long lasting vendetta
against my own blood.

My mother's next marriage
was no more comfortable
making me ask the hard questions
at not yet a preteen
for her.

Still I tried to believe,
see people as the best versions they could be
but the ones I knew never lived up to it.
But I wouldn't give up.
Until...

My relationships with boys
were never easy
verbal abuse turned into physical blows
that I still wake up screaming from those nightmares
and people ask me now why I am...

I don't communicate well.
I use poems, lyrics, rhythm, and pictures
to say what my heart knows.
I've always felt wrong.
A life of disapproving looks, I just hide behind books.

I'm trouble, but I thought you knew.
I'm full of messy surprises.
I'm broken inside.
But you gave that up,
so I give up on you.