My truth is that I am innocent

like an infant,

but I am intelligent.

I am mild,

wild;

I am so many things the world no longer values.

My truth is hidden behind a disguise,

its demise

no suprise after the lies

of what I could be,

should be

so long as I changed

my smile, my body, my hair.

Unfair

the world wants what isn't there.

Yet still I comply,

providing that false supply.

I give them the me they want.

That me they will remember,

like in December,

all that matters is thet fire not the ember.

Yet still I aspire

to be that fire,

it's buring and consuming me from the inside.