Can they see through me?

Can they see me?

The real me?

The one that I’ve tried so hard to bury in her shallow grave?

Or are they assuming?

Assuming they know me?

For who I am?

Or who I want to be?

 

Can they see me?

The insecure me?

The one that I’ve tried so hard to perfect?

Or are they guessing?

Guessing at what I think?

Of myself?

Or of others?

 

Can they see me?

The depressed me?

The one that I’ve tried so hard to please?

Or are they playing?

Playing along with Depressed Me?

Telling her that she’s happy?

 

Because she’s not.

The End

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