Happy, bubbley, smiles from ear to ear.

Sweet everlasting laugher fills the room.

Everyone says "She's so perfect"

searching for a flaw to pick at.

But if she is so perfect,

why is there an eternal void that fills 

her heart?

Why is there a lack of pure love,

a lack of true joy

a lack of purpose.

Who is the me inside of me?

Bitch. Hoe. Popular.

She'll kiss you to your face,

then rip your heart out

with her bare hand

when you turn around.

She's just a pretty face.

If she's nice to you,

it is all an act.

She is used, worn out,

there is nothing left to take.

Is that really the me inside of me?

Caring. Kind. 

There is so much love 

bundled up inside

just waiting for the right 

person, so it can explode.

Happy, sweet ,

longing to be free.

That is the real me.

Other peoples words,

their daggers jab into her soul,

convincing her she's someone else.

But they don't know.

They don't know the me inside of me.