I am the masterpiece you demanded I build,

with a hollowed-out chest and a spirit unfulfilled.

I’ve been "outstanding" since the third-grade bell,

running a heaven inside of this hell.

I bring you the A’s like a trophy, a prize,

and I wait for the spark to wake up in your eyes.

I stand in the doorway, my heart in my hand,

a giant who’s begging to just be a span—

but you look through my skin like I’m made out of glass,

waiting for someone "important" to pass.

"That’s cool," you mumble, not lifting your head,

as if every triumph is something you’ve read.

You starve me of air while I’m gasping for light,

then wonder why I’ve grown so cold in the night.

I am the ceiling, the spine, and the floor,

the one you don’t think you should worry for anymore.

Because I don’t shatter, you think I don't feel,

so you hammer your silence against my own steel.

But the steel is a scream that I’ve frozen in place,

to hide the "Sweet Girl" and her tear-streaked face.

Then they walk in with a smudge on a page,

and you treat their "average" like center-stage.

A ninety for them is a banner unfurled,

the greatest achievement in all of the world.

You listen to them like their voices are gold,

while my stories are "noise" and I’m "getting too bold."

I’m bursting with news of a goal that I hit,

and you tell me to "Shut up" and deal with it.

You mock my excitement, you drown out my pride,

then ask why I’m "mean" when I’m burning inside.

What was my crime? Was I too good too soon?

Did I howl too loud at your cold, empty moon?

I’m killing myself just to make you look up,

to pour one drop of "love" in this bone-dry cup.

I’m drinking the Monster, I’m chasing the heart-beat,

shaking and sweating to avoid my defeat.

I push through the migraine, the throb in my skull,

because being "extraordinary" is better than dull—

but the higher I climb, the further you go,

leaving me trapped in this "perfect" girl show.

The "Sweet Girl" is sobbing, she’s clawing the bars,

she’s tired of reaching for indifferent stars.

She’d throw it all away—the grades and the A’s,

the "outstanding" labels and the hollow-eyed praise—

just for one second where you’d actually care,

and notice the girl who is standing right there.

I’m a high-achieving ghost, a masterpiece of pain,

standing alone in the pouring gray rain.

You asked for a miracle, I gave you my life—

but all that I got was the edge of the knife.