But what if I'm worrying you won't like me ? That you'll realize I'm just like every other teenage girl, but with a detachment issue and sick ideas for my departure ? That my passion for words and the sickening sentences I am able to create with them is the beginning and end of anything that could be considered deep about me ? That my head is the only place you can find them (not my heart.... or my wrists) ? And those nights I spoke of falling apart on, when I didn't mention the reason, it was because I was lacking one ? That I'm not poetic past the physical sense ?