Obscure

Who am I? Am I comfortable enough to answer that question? I am a stranger to myself an enigmatic wad of introversion.

I can’t answer. I will only insult myself and berate my own existence. Picking myself apart like ravens would a withered carcass.

Leave me alone. If only I could leave myself alone. I want to abandon myself. To be ignored like a dusty forgotten book on a shelf.

I don’t know me I am a stranger to myself. I want to know myself. Who lives in me? I crave confidence from within a sense of sureness people can see.