Imperfect

I don’t belong here. In this world, your world. I don’t fit your mold. Frankly, I don’t want to. I don’t want to fit in with the plastered on smiles or the façade of perfection. I don’t want to be part of that Barbie doll picture. And I know you don’t want me to be. You don’t like me. Don’t pretend you do. Your fake happiness when you see me is sickening. I can barely stand to hug you. But I have to. Why? After all, you don’t even want me, so why should I be cordial? Why should I pretend to be ignorant to your disdain? Why am I here? I don’t want to be. I’m not comfortable here with your small talk. As if you actually care about my life. I want to be where I’m loved. Where I’m wanted. With my friends. I want to go home.