Nothing hurts more than wanting to be someone else.
I know I love myself,
I really do,
myself is just my perfect standard.
But sometimes . . .
or maybe . . .
oftentimes,
I could not help hoping I am you—
I could not help wishing I was 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 on my phone,
I realize again,
each and every person's life is different.
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 spent 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.
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.
