A continuation

I've lost myself. I've lost my style. I've lost my rhythm.

It came to a point in my life where the only thing I could do was runaway from myself. The only thing I could do was forget who I was. The only thing I could do was lose the peices of me that made me Me.

I want to say that I regret it but I cannot. I can't say that I regret protecting myself.

I've been hurt. And I can't let the wounds heal. I pick and I pick and they fester and they fester. Because I feel like if I let them close, they'll be forgotten. How many times did I make excuses for the way other people hurt me only to have someone else, someone new come and rip the scars. Tear me wounds and wounds and wounds to be larger and larger and larger.

And I think I got so afraid of bleeding out. I was so afraid of the oncoming pain. I was so afraid of letting anyone touch me, cause I'd had so many hurt me, that I pushed, I ran, I have yet to return.

I've hidden my soul so far that I question, Do I have one at all? Which person am I? The one that I hid away and remember myself as? Or the one I've become?

How does one refind themself? How do I remember what I really am?