It's been said a million times: "It's not you... It's me."
But I hope you'll consider this a reason to believe.
I think I'm far too damaged; I know that I am, I'm certain.
Don't want to be another regret to someone. Don't want to be a burden.
A burden when I never drive and you'll have to pick me up.
I never learned because I got too scared when I saw a collision with a truck.
I'd have you speak to all the strangers, you'd lie for me.
I've always had crippling, overwhelming, social anxiety.
Introverted? Yeah, absolutely. Shy? That's quite fair.
Nobody's really noticed me... So tell me, is this a dare?
Did someone put you up to this? Is this a contrived joke?
I'm not good at trusting people. Call me a misanthrope.
Even if I did, do you think this would last?
Because honestly, I only think you're trying to get me into bed.
So you'll move on to someone else, somebody purely prettier
...Someone not so insecure, So childish, Much skinnier.
I'll wonder if you know that I've never even been kissed.
Or how I'm pretty sure I'll never be with all the scars on my skin.
If you're intentions are pure and you're this nice... No.
I don't want my mess, Deep depression, My flesh, To mar your beautiful soul.
You deserve better than the girl who hides how poor she is.
Who breaks down nightly on her kitchen floor silently crying.
Who needs to fix herself before she goes on her first date.
Who needs to mourn the loss of her father and everyone she lost too young. ...Okay?
I don't need a savior, I think I just need time.
It's taking a while. Too long. I'm too far gone. I don't know why.
Would it insult you terribly to request to be your friend?
I swear that I would love to.
But honestly. I don't think I can.