Am I just something to complain about? Something not to cherish? Something to hate on and laugh at in secret? They look at me and believe I'm fine. But the truth is I want to cry most of the time. But let them complain and let them hate. As long as they don't look inside. That's something I couldn't take. Because then they'd see what to say. What to say to make me break. So let them complain, fore I complain about me too.
