I searched for perfect words in expressing my emotions,

then I realized that there are no perfect words, no perfect me.

In my imperfection, I have done things I swore could never be me.

"My hands can never be stained by blood or filth," I had sworn.

"I would rather die than do this," I had said.

Now, those things have constantly become my lifestyle.

The things I dread are now me.

The things I feared became my identity.

I stand in the mirror, looking at the once innocent and naive girl who is now a contrast of herself.

That girl is gone now.

Maybe something in me wishes her back,

or maybe the new me is better.

I tried convincing myself about the latter,

but if in truth I feel it is better,

what is this helplessness I feel?

This guilt I bear around?

Why do I bury my head in shame?

Why then do I try to hide from myself?

Who exactly can help me?