Its a funny thing to think
that there's no one in this world
that knows everything about me,
especially no one in this home.
And then I realize that maybe
that's why I'm so **** good
at being alone.
I'm perfectly cut out
for this life of isolation you see,
because I'm tired of coming home
and finding little pieces of everyone else
clinging to me.
Being altered might be too much to pay.
I don't want to look like her
or talk like her
or think like her
and why the hell
did I just say the word "cray"?
Truth is
no one knows
everything I've ever thought,
everything I seem to be
but I'm actually not.
No one knows
that I despise the word hipster
or that I felt bad
hooking up with him
when I'd rather been
kissing his sister.
No one knows
that I stay up late writing poetry,
that if it was up to me
I'd be far away from here
with nothing
but a backpack
a bucket list
and my fear
of not having the chance
to do absolutely everything.
Nobody knows
how many times I've stepped on cracks in the sidewalk
or how often I get writers block
or how particular I am about my clothes.
Yeah it's kind of funny
how much nobody knows.