You paint me in the
wrong colours and
hold your art up to my
face, claiming it's a mirror.
And you're deaf to
my silent protests; you
look admiringly at your work and
tell me "I know you"-
you don't.

We walk together down the
corridor and I don't know
what you're seeing but it sure as
hell isn't me. You smile,
smug like a cat,
thinking that you've got me.
(You haven't).

And you think you know
what makes me tick but you're
forever trying to wind me up
with the wrong key, and
wondering why sometimes
(when you look, when you really look)
the hour hand's pointing out thirteen.