I step outside my comfort box, I come to terms with myself. I understand. My assignment, I didn't complete my assignment. The message to myself i was meant to convey, The love, the affection, the warmth, The cool wind to blow across my face to change my surface's temperature. My warm skin now cold to the touch. But what of my heart, My heart that of which has been torn in pieces, ripped and stomped upon, What of the divine creature through it's torture doth still love, Still love, but why, Thy divine being, it's beauty radiating. Love. What is this love of which I speak? The undying word that is forever truthful. The breeze may change my skin, but underneath shall remain mint. My heart shall undergo none of it. None of it's manipulative powers. Why should my heart break like this for reason only of my own doings? Why can you not accept yourself for who you are be happy about it? I see love, love sees me in return. But we do not meet. Not with each other, but with others. I outstretch my love for you. And you. And you. But what of me? Does my body not need consoled? Does the love I show to others not deserve magnification upon myself? To be mirrored? I have no reason to be like this. I am not a monster. I am not. But I am a wrong doing, I carry mistakes. But everyone makes mistakes. Everyone has their battles. But my assignment I do worry, for my assignment is not complete. An entity I do possess, thoughts-I hear mumble, reasons-I do not own, time-there is too little, Peace-there is too much, Happiness-so much unused, Love-hidden away to be unsheathed, like a buried treasure. My heart does ache, my body does tremble, my mind is weak, But i am strong. Even yet I worry, for my assignment is not complete.