I have a messy brain.

I’m not entirely sure why you even like me. It’s kind of like you’re blinded by my many imperfections that are just tearing away at the seems of what you seem to believe is “perfection.”

I think, because of that, I’m terrified that you’ll realize what you can’t seem to grasp at this point in time: I’m not perfect, I will never be. I’m a mess, and I show it