Sometimes doubt is the best. Doubting anything positive will occur. Better than waiting and only being disappointed. She is wearing a mask, covering up her true self. The one that shows hurt. The one that hates all that has happened. The one who hates herself. He has only made her mask grow thicker. Made her more attached to it. Afraid to ever let it go. For fear that someone would notice, and hate the real her. Faking is the best, she thinks as she sulks at the dismay that has recently recollected. No one would like the real me. No one. All alone in this harsh world of reality.
Once alone in this world she can breath. Take a step back. Admire others. Never herself. Everyone is so happy. So content. So caught up in their own lives that they don’t take the time to notice her hurt. Her pain. No one makes the effort. Why should they if she herself doesn’t try?
Perfection. It’s all she wants. Anything less is unacceptable. Anything less makes her invisible. Horrible. Unloved.
Ignorance is bliss is what they always say. Maybe they’re right. She wants to go back to a time when ignorance and innocence were what her childhood consisted of. She wants to be a child. Go back to a less treacherous time. One in which no one makes a mockery of her. One in which she doesn’t make a mockery of herself.
Will her heart ever stop beating? Falling in love is supposed to be great. Not the living hell it is now. Why isn’t it as simple as it is in the movies? Why can’t it be wonderful, magical? She loves him. He loves another. Is it because of her unattainable strive to be perfect? Her missed goal. Her conception of beauty being fake, unrealistic? He can’t see her true feelings. Only she can. Others would only judge. If not outwardly then internally.
Why can’t she be normal?
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