What I let him see of me--
a girl, fifteen,
avid pianist with time for little else
short brown hair and cute eyes
open-minded and funny,
somewhat shy, but sweet
who likes drumming,
deep email conversations,
and Hello Kitty
--is not what I let her see of me--

a girl, fifteen,
troubled and insecure
with an eating disorder
and a self-injury problem,
possibly a lesbian,
with no plans for the future
and a blind eye towards the past
--but what I let her see of me--

a girl, fifteen,
sick and ugly
full of self-hatred and hurt
unwilling to trust anyone
convinced in the power of pain
disillusioned with life and love
--is not who I want to be--

a girl, fifteen,
who writes down every good thing
that happens to her every day,
and who smiles just because she's happy,
and who doesn't need to know everything
and doesn't want to know everything
and just wants to live
--so I'm trying to let go of that person--

a girl, fifteen,
who doesn't bother living
and doesn't bother loving
because everything will end someday
--and be who I know I can--

a girl, fifteen,
who believes in the art of happiness
and who buys more books than she could ever read
and who falls in love with beautiful boys
and who falls in love with beautiful girls
(whatever suits her fancy)
and who doesn't bother crying when she could laugh
and who goes to sleep with a smile on her face
--so god help me,
i'm going to live.