Which of me?

What could you possibly see when you sit there and stare back at me?
The porcelain mask that's painted perfectly,
or what's truly underneath?
Do you see the costume of my sweet serenity,
or the torn roots around my feet?
Is it my pretty little smile,
or the frozen screams behind my teeth? 
Perhaps it's the strength that I portray,
or the weakness that I hide?
Do you believe what I have told them,
or do you know that I have lied?
Do you take in my composed innocence,
or the demons of my restless mind?
Do you think that I'm really living,
or do you know that I've already died?