It’s because I laugh too often and too loud,
'Cause I act too proud,
Act like a child running wild,
that they don’t think I could ever be unhappy.

And you?
you just don’t get it.

You think I’m too delicate,
a fragile piece of glass.
Dumb.
Naive.
You don’t get it.

You don’t know how everything you say—
every glance, every joke,
every offhand comment—
fills me with sadness and doubt.

"Can’t I do anything right?"
The words echo.
Bang.
Thud.
Throb in my head.

The sadness overflows.
I just want to lay in bed.
But you don’t get it.

So I shove it back down.
Lift my head up, grinning wide,
keep acting like the childish clown.

I hide behind silly jokes,
because it’s easier than showing the cracks.
Easier than letting you see—
that I’ve already started breaking.