I’m Perfection

You see that? I’m perfect. I’m perfect because you want me to be that way.

That’s what love is, you know.

Perfection.

I’m too much to handle. Which, is understandable, I guess. You were raised by parents who loved you more than anything. I was raised by a parent who loved me, but had better things to do.  She let us go wild, while you were playing catch with mom and dad. But I, I have real problems. I watch my friends turn to dust. I watch my family tear at the seams. I watch my heart being crushed in your hands. But who said you were supposed to voice when you were upset? No one, of course. It’s too much for you to handle.

So I’m perfectly fine, love.

I overreact. I get mad at the littlest things. You wanna know why? You made me insecure. You made me weak. You took the platform I was standing on and lit it on fire when you came into my life. I’m just waiting to be engulfed. But, of course, when I overreact because I’m holding this all in, when I overreact and cry because I’m dying, it’s all my fault. It’s my fault when I’m mad that you break down. I’m not perfect enough for you.

So I’m happy with everything you do, love.

I’m perfect.

And my heart is all yours.

You deserve my smile, and my laugh.

Even if I’m dying on the inside. Dying all alone.

My Mask

Life sucks. Really, truly, freaking sucks.

And if it doesn’t for you, I seriously envy you and may want to kill you. (Just a little.) Or at least make it suck, just a little.

I have friends. I have enemies.

I have people who won’t talk to me, I have people who talk behind my back, and I have people who will just barely nod at me, or maybe give a rare, “Hey.”

I have a few good friends, and maybe, maybe one or two that I really talk to.

And that one or two, they don’t know a damn thing, cause I just don’t talk that much. Well, I do talk (a freaking LOT, according to some people), but it’s mostly just stupid stuff. Conversations are hardly ever really meaningful with me. Mostly because I feel like I give up too much information if it a conversation gets serious.

I seem like a really outgoing person. I get into stuff. I wear stuff that makes me stand out. I don’t pretend to be part of the background.

I’ve just really made this great big shell. Or wall. Or something. I know exactly how quickly people who you thought were friends can turn on you.

I know what heartbreak is. I know what true despair is. I even know how to keep a smile on my face when I’m screaming inside, or being shredded apart.

In short, I’m much more complex than I appear. And if you didn’t know me before the bright, printed shirts and smiles, you wouldn’t know.

Cause I’m just that good at acting. It takes years of practice, but I got it down pat. It’s actually easy to plaster on a bright smile now, when I get two hours of sleep a night, when I have horrible nightmares that come from no where. Smiles are easy. Sometimes it surprises me that no one sees through them, but sometimes it doesn’t.

I’ve distanced myself from people. From feeling. And I seriously know that I have. And I know it’s not good. In fact, I know it’s really bad.

I’m sick of pretending. My mask has cracked. And is falling to pieces.