Story of my Life by Daria Kudenko

I should tell you this story
“Story of my life”, but I can tell about something I’d never can before.
Throughout my life l always love notebooks in which I wrote down my dreams, nightmares, poems and thoughts: about happiness and pain, about inspiriting and despair, about all that touché with my heart.
But now, sometimes, I feel that I must scream about it to hear myself.
I want not to run away from me, I want to feel myself inside of me, but I can't always stay.
Well, I've changed
Except my heart still beats too fast
And my lungs still collapse
And my legs still shake
I once thought love was real
When we sat atop that hill and looked at cars below
We used to grow
The person I thought I knew must be
The person I once trusted until my bones rusted over
We used to grow
Like the tallest tree in my backyard, I used to know
Well, happiness and joy and bliss
How it all disappeared so quick
Well, happiness and joy and bliss
How it all disappeared so quick
So here's to life and here's to love
I've said it before, that I fade with the setting sun
So here's to life and here's to love
I've said it before, that I fade away with the setting sun
My ears are still ringing from the sound of your (my*) broken heart
Beating faster than thought, caught in your (my*) stare, so encompassing
All resolve is lost as words fall from my lips
My trembling fingertips held out in question
So shake hands with regret, set to slip away
My eyes crossing, rivers flowing under pale feet
As the moments count down to flames
Meet and greet death, he wears a cloak of your hopes and dreams
Quenched like the raging fire they were once
You're (I'm*) the breath I never found, you are (I'm*) the closed eyes peacefully resting while those around me, torn to pieces
You're (I'm*) the smoke I'd pull to escape from thought of me
No touch, no shadow, cast into mind
My hand fervidly held at my side as memories of my flow through mine, an empty space
More lonesome for what it has lost
You're (I'm*) the sunset smile thundering out of a careless moment
You're (I'm*)  the tightly closed fingers holding in a breath
If I would stay here with me, one more minute
I would steal the world
P.S: * (my*: I'm*) — means a reference to myself, like an appeal to me, like the words, which I want to tell to myself, but I can't.
I know that l must love myself,
But always I'm trying to find something that will be a cause of self-harted.
And these words devoted to me love myself.