_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.]