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It will always be hard for a single person to know anyone truly. Some books and pages forever tucked away; like they are suppose to be that way. But I’m getting sick of the world not thinking I deserve truth in those pages or a glimpse of how deeply one would betray me. Denying my existence necessary. Since its just so easy to walk on me. I have no time to fix the trampled parts of me and I think its what people find attractive in me. My addiction of finding even just one raw, honest person. My need for my own beautiful disaster. I’m hopeful still, but I shouldn’t be because I have to hand them my heart for a bit. I have to trust you to not drop, or play with, sell or buy, but steal. Steal it and keep it safe. But they’ve all failed. Every single one. By family, blood related or not and they call me crazy when they watch me hand out my heart, because only the insane do the same thing over and over expecting a different result. So yeah my books are filled with chapters of crazy. And I’m not sure if any one person could even fathom the mounds of my chapters. The pages to my title. Its taken nearly three decades to achieve this crazy, but all I need is hope. I know myself all to well, everyday every page I turn, i’ll always be handing out my heart. Hoping you will be the last one. The last tester. Hope tells me that maybe you are the one to settle my tides of crazy and stir in me the magic that hope is worth all my heartbreaking chapters.