Old Soul

I'd be a lot more fun if I was simple. Sometimes I think I was intended to be, but life decided to get its too-rough hands on me. I became someone who had to fight, to sink or swim, to push forward or I wouldn't survive. No matter what the cost.
It gives me drive, passion. But the fight makes me rough around the edges. A little jaded. Blunt. Sometimes I want to scream,

"Look at me. I'm a beautiful human being, too..." if only you could see past these stone cold towers I've had to build to get by. Beyond them, I'm an ocean. Deep blue, mysterious, infinite. I am.
But all you see are these walls I made because I had to, because that's just the hand life dealt me. You don't know why, but they're there.
And so I'm not a lot of fun. I'm just that girl - that ever-fighting girl, the old soul, slightly removed from all the rest; removed by those too-rough fingers of the world. Those fingers that caress me, strangle me, build me a prison and a home. But it's my home; the only home I've ever known.
And once you're there, you can never truly go back.
It doesn't make you very fun.

It's just an ache that makes your soul old.