Who am I really?
Am I that A I got on my science fair project?
Or the forty seven percent I received on my math test?
Am I the person who was heartbroken for months because he didn't love me anymore? Or am I the person
who broke someone's heart because I was using him? 
Am I a reflection of those who cannot love me?
Am I my mental illness, crashing and burning sixty times a day and not having enough energy to cry?
Am I the paths I'm relinqueshing or everything I'm embracing?
Sometimes I think that I'm no longer a person.
That I never was.
I'm a shell of a person.
My entire being is of broken mosaics stitched together with good intentions.
For the life of me, I don't know who I am. Is this the essence of individuality?
When there's nothing else, there's at least this that I'm sure of:
I am the person I think of when standing in front of the ocean.
I am what I eat for breakfast on a Saturday afternoon.
I am my thoughts when lying in bed at two o'clock in the morning.
I am the first drop of a hurricane.
The world will lay out before me to set on fire. 
All I have to do is burn.
I may not have much except for this very idea. 
And it's all I need.