Am I unusual?
Because I love to lie?
Because I don’t think I have a soul?
Because I would rather be by myself instead of with others?
Because the one I understand the least is myself?
Am I strange?
Because I think myself demented?
Because I love life but want to be rid of it?
Because I hate to feel pain?
Because I love to hurt myself?
Am I twisted?
Since I love the dark?
Since I can’t live without light?
Since I don’t trust anyone but myself?
Since the one I am scared of the most is myself?
Am I insane?
Since I believe in nature’s voice?
Since I hear colour in sounds?
Since I gave up on giving up?
Since I know this isn’t what I used to be?
Or am I just honest to myself, about myself?
For I silence my own dissent in order to please others.
For I believe that closing my eyes is enough for peace.
For I think the purpose of blood is to let it bleed.
For I know that love will find me.
And that one day, this world will accept me as I am, and for what I have become, and will forget what I was.