Messed up.

I do not want your sympathies,
nor your words of comfort.
Your support suffocates me.
I wish to be alone.

I regret having spoken out.
I yearn for your teasing,
not your looks of pity.

You ask of me what is wrong,
to which the answer is stuck in my throat.
You believe my upbringing to be the cause,
to this I say false.

You say you understand me,
yet you fail to see the real me.
My smiles hide my tears,
and my sleeves cover my wounds.

I look to the ground from up high,
wishing to take that single step,
I am unable to do the deed.

Weeping silently beneath the cover of my sheets,
I know I am messed up.