im sick of explaining who i am

i've been alive for 

six thousand, three hundred, and sixty six days

and i'm sick of having to explain who i am. 

like there has to be a reason for this mess of person i have became to be? 

i mean there are reasons.

but why should you know who i am before i even do?

six thousand, three hundred and sixty six 

nostalgic is my middle name 

i sleep way too much 

i think my heart is turning blue 

six thousand 

i'm a die hard hopeless romantic

optimistic, introvert. 

but these rose colored glasses don't look so well on me 

three hundred 

i think tupac is still alive 

i wear my heart on my sleeve 

and i haven't hugged my mom in five years 

sixty

i'm a walking bleeding heart 

my friends are sick of me being sad 

and this scar on my face is a daily reminder of all my imperfections 

six 

my lips look like cherries, but taste like blood 

and i know I'm not broken 

i think i'm just a little bent.

six thousand, five hundred, and sixty six days 

sorry 

i'm just sick of explaining. because i don't even know who i am.