Done, done, on to the next one...

How can I begin to define myself, or, in a sense, to try and say what I might be?

I know what I am, or at least an idea:

I'm silent. Not deadly. I have guilty pleasures. I know, because I am one of them.
I have a tendency to be violent. Which is much more fun than being melodramatic. But being depressive doesn't help.
I've stopped being a woman of a one night stand, but I can't resist temptation when I see it.
There is a lack of writing when necessary. And yet there is no lack of inspiration whatsoever. Blame depressive states.
When I see myself in the mirror, I look bleak. Empty. Like a shade of grey. Beady eyes that grow cold as days go by.
I'm self destructive. I'm not beautiful. I'm great in bed - as others before me state likewise -.
I can't write a decnt song to save my life. But I can sing my guts out until they bleed.
I have a secret life inside me. I have a small warm animal in my belly, waiting to come out.
I'm scared, and vulnerable, and strong. I only cry out of rage.
My mouth has a new world in it, like a ripe fruit falling off a tree. I'm still, at heart, a child. No one understands what I write, yet,
I am living proof.