And I Hate It

Is this a joke? I wonder, do people really like me, for me?
No, impossible. Purely impossible.
People, everyone, pitty me. They pitty who I am as a person, how I am too shy to make friends.
And I hate it.

Do you even really care? Do my scars mean nothing to you?
Of course not, because I don't flaunt it. I don't flaunt THEM.
Those horrors of my past and future still linger on my wrists; they'll never stop.
And I hate it.

Do people notice when I cry? Do they care about my REAL feeling?
No, they don't.
I put on a mask, a show to play off my true sadness.
It's an act I put on well; a bit too well.
And I hate it.

I look in the mirror, and guess what I see.
I see myself, a lonely, miserable person, putting on a happy facade for the world to think she's happy.
Am I even alive?
No, I'm dead on the inside, living in a shell of a human being
And I hate it.