There are things I’m not sure o about myself, like why I am there way I am, why do I get so scared and nervous, and why am I here at all? I’d like to tell you that I know clear answers to these questions, but I don’t. I have plenty of problems, most that I won’t tell you, and I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but that’s normal, I suppose. I9 go through the day as if there are no problems, but really it’s not so easy. If you look closely at my hands, they aren’t so sure and strong, they have nervous twitches and fumbles. If you look closely at my face, you’ll see that it isn’t so complacent, my eyes scour the room with paranoia and I look too worried. If you look really closely at my arms and maybe my legs, you won’t see smooth skin. Instead you’ll see faint scars and lines from my hateful days. And if you could see my heart, you’d see what a mess it is. Wrecked by years of abuse, smothered by my own doubts, and shaken from broken promises, it’s been made fragile. If you can realize how poor of condition I’m in, then maybe you can see how much trust I’m placing in you, how much I really like you. You are lucky and you are special to me.
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