I keep telling myself there's a reason I'm alive - a twisted consolation for the tears that I've cried.

Somehow I've become everything I promised myself I would never be.

I play the part so well I almost fool myself.

When you've finally put back all the pieces, the past returns to scatter them again.

All I ever wanted was to fit in, so all I ever tried to be was normal.
But that was what made me stand out.

When I was younger I thought my mother was a saint... now that I've grown up, I can see that she ain't.

All my problems seem to revolve around not having enough alcohol.

I'm everything you told me to be - so why do I feel so incomplete?