I'm not different, I try to be, but I don't think I am.
I don't have blue eyes like the Pacific Ocean.
I have brown eyes and hair like a crow's feathers.
My body isn't a temple
It is more like a forest and I like when people get lost in it.
I have no mermaid figure
My body is just skin and flesh hiding a skeleton

I try to be different, but I'm not really
I like flowers, poetry, and writing, but I never stick to writing about one thing
I live for a touch that burns and feeling passion
Although it hurts, I revel in being able to feel deeply.

I try to be different, but I don't even know what different is
"Don't focus on your sadness." but it is quite addicting
My writing becomes readable when I indulge in my sadness
I like to think that chemicals in my brain are unbalanced
It can't be just me f***ing up my well being
I try to stay away from s*** disguised as precious dripping gold, but I inevitably fail

I try to be different but what is different?
I'm passionate about writing even though I know it may not be good
Writing the word raw makes me feel
How can a word make you feel?
Raw makes me feel terrifying untamed emotions
The word tingles my insides
Consequently, I try to write it in every god damn sentence
Raw makes me visualize the blood flowing through my body as the pen's ink drips to the paper
There is something beautiful in vulnerability
It is so real
There is now feeling more raw than deeply rooted vulnerability

I like to think I am different, but I'm not even fooling myself
The biggest achievement I see in myself is being able to describe the color red

Red is the dress she wore while stealing him
Red is the feeling in my stomach when he left
Red is the way I feel my heart pumping as I bleed my ink dry
Red is the passion lingering in my veins
Red is the excruciating thirst of intimacy
Red is my need to feel
Red is the way I like conflicts and complications
Red is the way my hands curled my hair and how my head lies on my knees
Red is raw
Raw is red

This doesn't make much sense does it?
But it does to me

I feel very much and very often
Sometimes I hate it
Sometimes it's blissful
Sometimes I just live with it

I notice what I notice
I see beauty in everything I see
Which is good
but it is also terribly bad

I'm not different
I try not to be cheesy or cliche
Then immediately romanticize anything
I crave metaphors and comparing his lips to a galaxy's edge
Or mistaking the pain I felt with your for happiness
You gave me a rose and I thought it was a bouquet
Grabbed the stars from the dark night skies and put them in your eyes
I covered the sun with my fingers and let you burn me instead
I am the only one to blame
For believing that if I loved someone; I didn't have to love myself.

I never like to talk about myself
Because I don't know much about that subject
I am bits and pieces of every single person I have met
The ones that have hurt me
The ones that have made me laugh

I have been hurt but the people I love
Who hasn't?
It doesn't make me special
It certainly does not make me different