What is it about this world,
That makes you want to destroy every shred of individuality.
That makes you want to be perfect, in an imperfect way.
That makes you put on mascara, and cover your face, almost every single day.
That makes you lie about what you love, only to be mocked for the lies you say.
That makes you want to curl up into a ball of self-pity, but when you wake up, you say, “hey!”.
That makes each morning difficult, and makes each breath taken, taken painfully.
That makes you want to live in another world, far far away.
What is it about this world, that makes living in it, such a drag?