A/N- written on a rainy bus ride home, while contemplating my soul...


I cut myself open

to see what was inside.

And I found the intense pain

In which I now reside.

A permanent form of heartache

That lacks all peace of mind

that formed when

I cut myself open.

Just to see what was inside.

I found a heart.

Not made of gold,

but silver, poisoned deep.

I found a soul.

Quite far from old,

but restless, without sleep.

I found a mind.

Not brilliant,

but riddled with deep scores.

I looked at this and wondered:

Is it anything like yours?

It's not the imperfection

that scares me such a way.

It's that not everyone accepts:

Imperfection is our way.