I am not a real person.
I am an outer shell,
wrapped in a mind that wants to be seperate.
I am skin, and fat, and blood, and dust.
I am thoughts and decisons that no one understands,
not even I.
I am impulses and overwhelming needs.
I am irrational ideas and scattered thoughts.
I am a broken soul caged to a cold bed.
I am the monster curled up in the dark corner.
I am fragile glass about to be shattered.
I am a burden, confused, and disordered.
I am skin and bones taking up too much space.
I am nothing but dead matter.