It's hard to believe I thought you knew me. Thought you were seeing my insides but you just saw right through me.
Drawing up a pretty little image in your head. Telling yourself whatever you needed to prove you weren't already dead.
Eyes locked on to my reflection. These words sting me. They are obviously products of careful selection.
At least I know these lies serve me no more. But sometimes I feel like I'm ripping off the scab to heal the sore.