I am a creature of habit.
Of sadnesses that collect on my skin like scars, and happiness that burns as it goes down. I carry with me the burdens of my ego, the blood stains of my past, and trinkets of things to come. I am a mess of bijou and ennui, of sorrows that ache like a crack in bone, and musings that wash away the evidence of a harsh life.
I am haunted by acidic ghosts in my blood - mistakes I can't acknowledge or contain, geysers of anguish and regret that churn and gurgle in the subtle tones of my voice.
I hide nothing. I hide everything.