I am a mystery.  I know naught of who I am or who I was, or even of who I will be. I can’t even begin to describe how empty this sensation in my chest is; how every crevice of my heart is vacant. I’m hollow, and I wish I knew how to fill myself up but for that I’d have to know who I am. When I was younger, I was sure but now that I’m older, the only thing I’m sure of is how I don’t want to be here. My chest is empty, and my eyes are full of white, hot tears that set fire down my cheeks. I am a mystery to all those who have met me or will meet me, and even to the people I hold close to my heart. My scars are a symbol of my waning strength, and the people who left me here to rot and decay. I am decreasing in size, yet increasing in on myself. I push everyone away to keep you all at bay, I don’t want any casualties when I finally detonate.