Nothing hurts more than wanting to be someone else.
I know I love myself,
I really do;
My self is just my perfect standard,
But sometimes . . . or maybe . . . oftentimes,
I could not help hoping I am you –
I could not help wishing I am not me;
I could not help but tell myself,
I wish I was someone else –
Someone anyone . . . just not me.
Maybe I seem outgoing,
But I am a homebody;
Maybe I seem confident,
But deep inside I am yearning for myself;
One day I am happy,
Then one day I just cry and break down;
While I am staring at my phone,
I realize again,
Each and every person's life is different,
And I smile;
I keep telling myself, "It is cool . . . how cool it is . . . that every life is different."
I am so happy for someone,
To the point I am crying,
But later on,
I found out:
I am crying not because I am happy for you,
I am crying because I wish I was you;
And then I cry my heart out.
I always wish,
When I turn my head around and see people,
That I wish I was like them;
That I wish I walk lightheartedly,
Because my soul feels so heavy,
To the point I spend my whole day crying.
Maybe I do not seem to be crying,
Because I do not have any tears,
But deep inside my heart is crying –
It is shattered, damaged, and destroyed;
My heart is glass,
Breaking into two – into pieces,
Or maybe –
It has already died.
And I tell myself,
I am not sad;
Or maybe I am,
But I know I am not;
I am just . . .
Unhappy.
Sometimes I pity myself . . . so much I cry,
Because no one loves me –
The way every person should be loved;
Not even my own self.