If You Knew Me

Misunderstood

You say you don't know what's going on with me,

because I refuse to tell you.

It's true--

why should I waste my words,

pour my heart out,

and make myself completely vulnerable

to someone who won't listen to a word I say?

You don't care what's really going on with me.

You just want to snap your fingers and fix all my flaws.

Make me perfect,

make me better,

because who I am obviously isn't good enough.

You just want to take all the nasty, 

broken parts away--

what you don't realize is that you'd be erasing all of me.

You don't care that I'm depressed,

 or occasionally suicidal,

you just want to get rid of the problem.

But what about my problems?

My pain?

My hurt?

You don't really care,

and no matter what I say,

you won't listen.

You think I can't hear everything you say about me,

when you think my thin wooden door deflects all sound,

but I hear and see what you really think of me,

so why should I tell you?

You can blackmail me,

drug me up on antidepressants,

and take everything away from me that I still love,

but I won't tell you.

I won't tell.