I wonder.

Should I regret the fact that there is a facet of life that I will never know.
It is torture, to one as curious as I am.

Only once did I set for myself the same standard that I set for others.
I shall not do it again.
Perhaps, if I tried, I could continue to do so, and live my life without the pain of being myself.

And yet, I cannot be made to discard myself, and all the monumental failures and insignificant successes that are me. Each blow can only do so much, and to break me is no simple task.

A person can live in many ways. I will never be plastic, as many seem to be. Nor am I a pure, brittle, gem. I am steel, hardened by ash, and tempered by a wisdom to which I should have no right. Metal that reforms itself only in the fiery stresses of a violent furnace.

I will not hide, simply because that is the way I have shaped myself. I will not bow under the palm of another's hand. Let any who would try, risk the edge of my blade against their flesh.

Not too long ago, I was unable to think of myself as a human being.
People want to read me. They want to know what I am, break me down, and judge me. I do not know what they see in my eyes, but they do not like it.
Its strange, that when I have started thinking myself capable of all the emotions in the human spectrum, that people have appeared, who would treat me like a monster, a creature whose existence is his sin.

They cannot hope to read me, because I cannot read myself.
I only act on what is before me, on instinct.

What you do not understand should scare you.
I should be afraid of myself.