I'm not pure;
as innocent as I seem.
by my own hand
as well as what was
done to me.
why do I have to be?
why do I feel I have to be?
for who?
what's the point anyway?
and yet this week it haunts;
subtly, softly, but there.
An element of guilt
for the lie of an image
I portray.
To those who believe
the best in me.
And possibly it's because of the lie,
that is my whole life.
and yet I can never stop pretending.
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