So because I dye my hair black

Wear too much makeup around my eyes

Put on pants that are just the tiniest bit too tight

And avoid the sun like the plague,

You think I’m depressed?

You think something’s wrong with me?

You think that because my music has more screams in it

Than cheery little repetitive syllables

I should see a counselor,

Be put on suicide watch?

Bull shit.

I’m just fine.

Dressing like this,

Acting like this,

Being this,

It makes me happy.

 

Now that girl over there,

The one with the big brown eyes

Light pink lip gloss

And Abercrombie outfit pieced together

By her agent that booked her a photo shoot tonight?

That girl is my sister.

That girl is a girl that has a smile like bubblegum and a laugh like cotton candy.

That girl is a girl that can wrap everyone around her little finger.

That girl is beautiful, perfect, a shining example of happiness.

  And last night she swallowed half a bottle of pain meds instead of eating dinner.

Last night I got the call that they were trying to save her liver.

Last night when I had to call you, her teacher, and tell you,

and you asked me "what could possibly drive her to that"

I nearly screamed.

You are what is wrong. 

You are the one with your idea of perfection

that you force her into 

until she cries herself to sleep at night

and counts her ribs through her shirt. 

 

So don’t you dare look at me

In my all black outfits

And tell me that I’m depressed

While my little sister

Who is by every definition perfect

Lays in a hospital bed on suicide watch.

So just shut up already. 

I’m happy.

She’s not.