I was fucked up and ugly when you found me, cowering behind a book, mascara running down my face.
I still am fucked up, only now I’m prettier and I’m hiding in plain sight.
I think that you like me because I don’t have a mascara stained face.
I think that you like me because I don’t hide behind things anymore.
I think that you wouldn’t like me if you knew that I am still ugly on the inside, that I am still hiding somewhere and that I need more than you give me.
I think that you would maybe, probably hate me if you knew all of these things.
I think that I maybe, probably want you to know these things so you will hate me a little more.
I think I am crying, and I think my mascara is running down my face.
I don’t know why I use mascara, it makes my eyeballs itch.