Je ne suis pas belle. [I am not beautiful.]

The mirror isn’t enough for me. The makeup doesn’t make it better. They say I’m pretty; I don’t agree, I’m just a name, with distorted letters.

_Je ne suis pas. _ [I am not.]

My doubt could swallow me whole, with its jaws snapping my neck, and its words burning, yet ice cold. It keeps you far worse than in check.

_Je ne suis pas belle, _ [I am not beautiful,] je ne le serai jamais. [I never will be.]

Makeup was my savior, coloring my face, covering up just how messed up I am. It covered up my nature of a disgrace, my nature of playing victim, playing lamb.

_Je ne suis pas belle, _ [I am not beautiful,] peu importe combien [no matter how much] je voulais être. [I wanted to be.]

I’m not the pretty image in the mirror, not the neat clothes on my body. The person I am, to me, is not any clearer. I know who I’m not, they scream at me.

Je suis faux. [I am fake.] Je ne suis pas belle. [I am not beautiful.]

I have hobbies people like, the pretty ones. Violin and writing, calligraphy and French. I feel like I’m an athlete, baggage worth tons, like I’m the greatest, but I got benched.

Mais je ne suis pas génial. [But I am not great.]

I’ve always liked music, songs in my ears, but the chanteuse in my head hurts because she’s screaming all my fears, like I can’t feel the pain, or hear the alerts.

Je ne suis pas belle. [I am not beautiful.]

The rhythm I once liked so much, still rings in the hollow between my ears. It seems my love for it is now out of touch, because it was the reason I am now in tears.

Je n'aime plus cette chanson. [I don’t like this song anymore.]