I’ve never been beautiful
All the scars and baneful words
Have always made my self-image.
Externally I speak words of kindness
Yet I throw shame to myself day and night
And yes, I always wear a smile,
A cover-up for the tears that burn my eyes in the dark.
Whenever I question my whole existence
What am I?
An instrument of pain?
Or a bundle of good vibrations?
Who am I?
The protaganist to other stories
But an antagonist to my own,
A raw breathing wound
An exhibition of the things I wish to forget.