My Secret Poem by Anastasia Wofford

The happiness that I wear,
Like a soft cotton T-shirt,
Is more like absolute despair,
No amount of bliss can hurt.

Outside I’m alive and vibrant yet,
Inside both dead and cold,
Here it goes- my secret,
Your words- they hurt my soul.

Will I ever be able to do,
Anything that you like?
Or will it always be askew,
No matter how hard I try?

If it’s not done the way you would,
It might as well not be done at all,
I’d do it your way if I could,
And yet still remain a thrall.

But to be true to myself- I must admit,
I’ll never do it quite like you,
And to your demands- no longer submit,
My withered soul shall be renewed.

I’ll tread down the unknown path,
And remember your words no more,
No longer to incur your wrath,
Now that shall settle the score.