Saintess-of-Ashes

I hate what I have become, what I used to be was not any better. My face, like a mask, hides who I truly am and how I feel. No one wants to see beneath this mask, it is horrific. Scars disgrace my body and my soul, my own heart and mind find me foolish and even they do not respect me any longer, I have no control over them. The things that used to bring me joy have been ripped away from me. I miss them but can now see how they were just lies as is anything I find happiness in. Those standing on the outside see what they want to see of me. Inside there is so much more to me, yet there is nothing. Supeficial things do not excite me an