I find something beautiful in everyone I meet

except for myself.

How can I expect someone to love me when even I don't?

I'm not deep.

I'm not articulate.

I'm not creative.

I'm just broken—

and I'm the only one here to pick up my own pieces.

How do you love something—someone—that is broken?

A vase may have looked beautiful,

but once it's shattered, it's just thrown away.

I stare at one of my shards—

it is unrecognizable.

There's a girl right there who's beautiful 

Now look at me:

but there's nothing to see.

If you can't tell what you're looking at,

how can you love that?

How can he love that?

I don't expect him to.

Not when I can't love those pieces.

I'm weak though.

I'll never love my pieces.

But if he somehow were to love me—or even do something so simple as hug me—I'd never be able to let go.

I'd become more addicted then I already am.

And my pieces would be too small to hold—a pile of dust.

And I'm terrified of that.