The brightness of my teeth should show my self-consciousness.
As even with the best I can do, to me they burn.

The size of my shirt should show that I have big places to fill.
As I’m swallowed by the knowledge of future responsibilities.

The way I speak should show my truthfulness.
For If I lie, I can’t do it without stuttering, and I hate how my voice rises when I do it.

The smoothness of my lips should show my inexperience.
As I’ve never kissed before, so they stay soft in an attempt to hush my mind of its fears of never feeling the connection of locking lips.

I’m an easy read like Level-one books, and you know this.
But yet you still look through my soul and criticize me for intentions you know **** well I don’t have.