I sing in the shower.
Belt my heart out,
Scream my brains out,
Get my feelings out.
But only if nobody’s home.
Convince my friends that I’m cooler than I am,
Argue with my doctor about how healthy I am,
Tell my mom that I’m a size smaller than I am.
But only if I know I won’t get called on it.
I don’t like myself very much.
I’m twenty pounds too heavy,
My voice reminds me of a drunk Tom Petty,
My personality reminds me of a bowl of cold spaghetti.
I’m just not the best me.
The left side of my face is prettier,
I only tweet funny updates at night,
I don’t drive because I’m scared of another accident,
And I hide most of my thoughts behind my wit.
I have lots of little quirks that I care so much about
Like not wearing makeup every day
And taking time to find matching socks
And staying to the right side of the hallway
And going to church even when I don’t want to
And listening to electronic music when I draw
And doing math homework early because numbers are important.
I love to play Monopoly.
I love to talk about boys.
I hate listening to country,
But I love how an acoustic guitar makes me feel.
I hide a lot of myself from people
Because I’m dumb and ugly and weird
But I’m also smart and pretty and cool
And I’m scared that they won’t think so too.
Despite my carefully cultivated public persona
And my layers and layers of fear
I still like to giggle and snort and smile too wide
Because my laugh is always real.