She was a lucky person, or so they thought,

Unaware of the numerous battles that she fought

From day to day, from week to week.

She was rendered hopelessly weak.

She became crazy; manically wired,

But her 'perfect' status left her no room to be tired.

They judged her based on her appearance; her sight.

They didn't stop to double-check whether they were right.

For she had a roof over her head.

On her table she had bread.

"What more do you want?" they were quick to ask.

"Popularity is an honour, not a dull task!"

They regarded her anxiety

As nothing but self-pity.

Their words sharp, their tones flat,

They called her an ungrateful brat.

She took everything, her eyes shut,

To deal with it, she started to cut.

It helped her through the rain

For a short while, it alleviated the pain.

Still, that was not enough

At her, the world was too rough.

They hurled words like rocks

At her, making her frozen in shock.

To persuade them, she made one last attempt.

Unconvinced, they regarded her with contempt.

Then, she knew, she was done with getting help.

Because, just as she thought,

They didn't believe her until they saw

Her hanging there, rope on her neck

Revealing how much of a wreck

She really was.