On the outside, I’m perfect. I get exceptional grades, I talk to everyone, I share and let others confide in me, never the other way around, and I take care of others.
Why can’t they see that when I smile I don’t always mean it?
Why can’t they see that I am slowly breaking?
Why can’t they see that my opinions are just that opinions?
Why can’t they see that I’m not as perfect as I act?
Why can’t they see that I’m hurting?
Why can’t they see that what happened to me, though not terrible, broke my heart?
Why can’t they see that sometimes I too need comfort?
Why can’t they see that all I need is a hug?
Why can’t they see that I’m slowly slipping drowning in the pressure?
Why can’t they see that behind the I’m fine answer I always give?
Why can’t they see that I’m a broken mess and I need someone?
Why can’t they see that what I say and how I act is usually a lie?
Why can’t they see?
They aren’t me.