Us
I write and I write and I write and then I erase because it will never be just right. I think and I think and I think and it doesn't stop so I shrink and I shrink and I shrink and become less of myself to please others. Because that's what we all are. Liars. So we cut or we hit or we scratch until we scar. Our souls burn like millions of fires as we erase and erase and erase every part of ourselves that matters. We aren't enough as ourselves so we check the latter. Become something else. Become someone else. We are never enough. So we become tough. We build up walls. But the thing about walls is at some point they must fall. And what then is left? If we've erased and erased and erased and changed every single part what then is left? Is it really us? Or are we now just a shell to be forever changed? Edited and reworked to fit into whoever we have to be to please? So I write and I write and I write in the hope that I may someday some way get it right and be me again.