I am an imperfect person.

I am obnoxious, and loud, and rude.

I talk before

I can listen,

I give my opinions before gathering all the facts.

I'm terrified.

I fester in insecurities.

I squirm inside the cocoon

I've built for myself.

I'm untalented.

I can't take a compliment.

I long to help but hate giving gifts. My time is my most valuable resource, and

I wish to give it all to you.

I am lost in a world built among the stars, a constant daydream clouding the nightmares of reality.

I miss my home, not the one of brick born into this lifetime, but the one where my soul collided with hope, the purest of me, the true before, before.

I miss that before.

I remember memories of my embarrassments, everything

I should have said, every moment in which my mouth should shut. Will a thousand lifetimes erase these from my movie, or will every lifetime add another scene?

I'm tired, exhausted.

I want to sleep on a cotton candy cloud,

I want to drift off through the waves,

I want to lie on a beach alone relishing the quiet, nothing but my thoughts.

I can't do any more harm if there's no one there to stop me.

I can't do any more good if there's no one left to love.

I am not my own soulmate.

I don't think

I could ever be yours.