I was always taught
That the green in my eyes
Was more precious
Than the sadness hiding underneath.
They always told me
People only loved me for my lips,
Not the echoing cries that came from
Between my imperfect teeth.
They told me that it didn't matter if I
Was hollow on the inside as long as
I appeared whole on the outside.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Diary,
PoetryI decided to write a diary. . . And make it public. Here you go, (if anyone even reads this stuff.)
