Me
Me. What a strange word of identification. It can be the name for so many people and yet just identify one. It is what I call myself; it is what everyone calls themselves. But there is just one me.
I am not what my friends opt me to be. I am not what I opt to be. I am what I am. I would call myself misunderstood, but they would call me ignorant. I am dark, but not evil. I am different, but not strange. I can see the world through more than just my own eyes, but I can only truly understand through my own.
I feel remorse, not regret. I feel grief, not anger. I feel passion, not love. I feel protection, not safety. I feel pressure, not stress. I feel gifted, but not powerful. I feel strange, not corrupted. I feel hurt, not pain. I feel joy, not laughter. Though I can only feel so much, I am not superficial. But that is as deep as I can go without breaking.
My emotion is my weakness, and not my strength. They wonder why I seem to feel nothing, when that it what allows me my heart to beat. Touching is not the only way to feel.
My soul is full of tears which cannot be rebound. My heart is full of rips that will stay open forever more. As much as I try to cover these holes with thin patches of lies, they can see right through the openings. I wonder why these wounds won't heal.
When I realized that I would always be alone no matter how close I became, I forced myself to succumb. I seek shelter within the dark caves of my being. I am running out of places to hide. I am running out of places to escape. I am running out.
Sometimes I wish that there was more to what I am. But there is not. I must accept that. When I can, maybe someday I will fade away to a place where I can just be. And I can be safe. But I have not found that place, and I know it is not here.