I’m not perfect.
I’m not close enough to beautiful to be even considered pretty and I’m not skinny
enough to be considered attractive on society's scale.

I’m moody, unpredictable, and at times can be downright rude.
I have scars both physical and emotional, from where fate has been cruel and my oh, so beautiful addictions have bested me.
I trust too easily and care too much for the souls, who like I, tend to lose themselves in the waves of societal current.  

I'm empty, cold and bitter, because I've been screwed over too many times by
imbeciles who never deserved my trust in the first place.

I voice my beliefs too loud.

I'll stand up for what I’m an advocate for, and refuse to stand by while ignorance and blind hatred tear down my purpose.

I find humor in twisted measures, laugh at inappropriate times and I'm definitely not the best essence to look through the light of morality.  

I can show off my scars.

Tell my story.
Let people pour over my journal,
Read the entries about my homicidal thoughts, and demonic aspirations who tend haunt my wretched being and torture my poor soul  
I’m flawed. Obviously flawed.

But It doesn't matter. None of it matters,
because
I love myself and that's really all I'll ever need.