I have made a mess of my soul.
It is calloused and ugly.
I have collected every heartbreak, every hurt.
I carry around my mother's trust issues, shackled to my ankles,
my father's tendency to fly off the handle
and regret.

The scars left behind by my past lovers are still aching
and I am small. I am an open wound.
My insides are spilling out; oh, what a mess I've made of my soul.
Nothing but an insecure girl, who once knew but now could not see; constantly looking for ways to remind herself of what she is not worth.

I am sorry that I ask why so often when you say that you love me.
It's just that, when you say it, my knees would shake with uncertainty,
my heart would ache with uncertainty
This isn't your fault. It's not that I don't trust you.
It's that I can't trust my heart enough to keep you.

I am sorry that this ruin of a soul is all I have to offer.
I know it is hard to love something so full of chaos,
please, I promise
I am trying my best to clean up the mess.