What I Hate About Myself 

By Savannah Shepard

I hate how she sits scrawny,

a cold rock, when she is still,

her lips stirred. Her

words are ugly to hear, full

of blades and dagger heads.

Humble, she calls herself falsely,

and will graciously claim,

sad friendship for you to rely on.

I hate how I continue

to trust every word,

though I have been deceived,

drowned in the salty sea.

I hate my forgiving heart.