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.]