I’ve never existed and

all of my being was just a sad, sad story

of what could.have.been.

and I’m crying (sobbing) as I lay myself to rest, with no.one.there.

(everyone always leaves, right, Peyton?)

in this dreadful (dreadfilled) graveyard (the host of all broken dreams.) and

how I wish to be pretty and loved like all the other perfectesses (I’m not even real, right?).

I am a mere blurred image, a fine line between what was and what will n.e.v.e.r. exist

(just read between all the pretty little lines and you’ll be f.i.n.e., darling)

(fake, imperfect, non-existent, exaggerated)

(like all the others, and plus, you just wanted to be beautiful (loved))

smile through the pain and keep that wristband on (no one’ll eversuspect of what you’re hiding)

and it’s all tearing you up on the inside (try to vomit all of it out, try and talk in tears, you can’t, you’ll see, you.are.worthless.)

(forever and ever you will be.)

and the worst part of all of this is

you.are.me.

(I.am.perfect(ly fake)