Everything of which occurs within my life, down to the last despair.Is what I deserve, for I don’t deserve kindness.I do not deserve others' presence but rather I deserve their disgust and hatred.I am not worthy of life and yet, I hold it dearly… I grip it close to my heart in fear.In hope that things will get better, that I will become better.Even though I know it is pointless to do so I still try, for so many tell me to try.To try and be perfect through everyone of my actions, to the point that I’m not allowedto cry.For I have nothing to cry about, to the point where I can’t be who I am.I am just a puppet for others entertainment, for others joy I wallow within despair.And within this despair I feel so cold, so alone that I am afraid.And yet I feel at home, at peace with myself.A heavy and dark home of which promises to hide me from the greedy eyes of life,is the home of which I live because I’m tired of being perfect.