I’d like to think there’s nothing wrong with me
but every time I look in the mirror,
a mess is all I see.

Who is this girl with curly black hair
that runs down her shoulders like angry waterfall
suffocating her every night as she sleeps alone
but to be honest, there’s not much difference
when they were your hands around her instead.

Who is this girl with coal-like irises
that thinks she’s already dead, that her soul ran away
just a ghost in a body not knowing exactly what to do
quietly roaming around this deceitful city
but they are honest and they see, the monster in you.

Who is this girl with light, bleeding, soft lips
fumbles nervously around everyone she knew
tripping over her own words, about you
struggling to align her messy mind
because it’s always havoc at the thought of you.

Who is this girl who pulls sleeves over her fingers
a constant lie of “I’m fine” to whenever anyone ask her
they try to make her out, another sad girl with cuts over you
but no, not this girl, she is sad with bruises that can’t be seen
bruises that blend well with her porcelain skin.

I am that girl, one who sees perfection in everyone but herself
no matter what anyone tells her, it won’t be enough
I can never have enough of something good
because everything that comes with it,
requires a high price of sanity to pay.