Split

I find it kinda funny,
When he speaks as if
He knows me...

But in reality,
He's like all the others,
Dreaming up what they want to see.

They flood me with compliments;
Ones I don't understand,
When I look into the mirror
To see who I truly am.

They tell me I'm beautiful,
I'm cute...
I'm pretty...
Even hot...

But in reality,
I know that's exactly,
Exactly what I'm not.

Sometimes they even tell me,
That I'm smart,
That's when I know
That they just don't know me.

Because in reality,
My intelligence is nothing
Princeton or Harvard wants.

This boy,
Like all the others
Tells me I'm kind,
And loving.

But do they truly see,
The demon inside of me?
Do they smell the rancid stench,
From deep within?

There is another person deep inside,
That knows I'm nothing they say,
I'm just not who they believe I am.