I am not a real person.

I am an outer shell,

wrapped in a mind that wants to be seperate.

I am skin, and fat, and blood, and dust. 

I am thoughts and decisons that no one understands,

not even I.

I am impulses and overwhelming needs.

I am irrational ideas and scattered thoughts.

I am a broken soul caged to a cold bed.

I am the monster curled up in the dark corner.

I am fragile glass about to be shattered.

I am a burden, confused, and disordered. 

I am skin and bones taking up too much space.

I am nothing but dead matter.