Am I more or less than the pieces that make me? The love I receive seems real, but more of an agreement. I give a piece of me to every sweet talker. Is it ever real love, or just a love of an idea, or parts. If I can't find any redeeming qualities, could anyone else. I'm so maluable I forget my real face. How can someone who only sees my body, know anything more. I am just a mold, made to fit any situation, because I don't like my reality. The love I get is for my looks, sex, and usefulness. I feel like that's all I equate to. Some people are deep, there are more than just the parts that make the whole. That's not me, I'm less and what makes up for the more, is the monster I am. Everyone I know see me different, how they'd like me to be. I am beginning to believe that I am just a illusion. I am just the wreckage of the decisions I've made.