Speculations.

Introverted to myself.
I have flaws by the millions.
Extroverted to the world
My face shows sunlight.
I hate the sun.
My fatal flaw is this in whole:
I don't want to be part of a bigger story.
Holding back, scared, and hiding,
like a child afraid of the dark.
I'm afraid of the sunshine.
I only know what its like
without the light.
Moving on is impossible.
You'll push, I know.
You always have.
Can I please see things in color now?
My whole world's been black and white.
Paint it with a hurricane, fast enough for me.
But too fast, and everythings the wrong color.
I won't notice.
I am ignorant in so many ways.
But wise in ways I wish not.
The world's flawed too, yeah.
But mine are fatal, I believe.
Closet-monsters, broken mirrors,
internal lightning, crashes to the floor.
Once I upon a time I wrote
how my heart was ice, and fragile.
Like glass.
Shattering, so hard.
Can you pick up the pieces? No.
I can't tell the ice from glass.
It wont melt.
Magic? No. Worrysome fragileness.
I want to reach out
just one more time.
But why stick your hand in the lions cage?
You know you'll get hurt again.
Why now?
Why then?
Why bother?
We were only made of moments and minutes
and miles and miles.
And when our soles run bare
and our faces our tired,
we rest.