I'm fat. I'm ugly. I try too hard to make myself presentable.
You try to convince me that I'm beautiful, perfect in your eyes,
and that's all that matters,
But I still torture myself over it.
I'm pretty on the inside, smart, bright,
but physical appearance is what matters most, right?
No, you say, no way,
but really, you sort of think I'm gay.
You pretend to love me, pretend to care,
pretent to like my face and hair.
But really, you hate me, wished I'd go away,
and I think I'll do it today.
Now I'm gone, away in a place,
where appearance doesn't matter,
and you cry because you wished you'd treated me better.
I have no regrets, none at all.
I just wish you could apologize
to my face.