What If I Lied

What if I told you that the entire time, you've liked me more than I liked you.
I did what I did, to defend myself, you see,
against whatever lies you might've been telling too.
When we walk down the street, and you think I am listening to you,
I can only hear my own voice.
And the million reasons I'll never tell you the truth.

What if I told you that every mirror and window we pass, I declare, again to myself,
that the only solution, my only escape, is to weigh the justification of my lies against the reality I see in those reflections.
The million other girls I could be.
Every one could be better.

And what if I told you that I never really cared. If you stayed. Or went.
When you came. I wasn't mad. I didn't worry when you didn't call.
And when I wanted to be angry, and I looked at you that way...your smile broadened from your lips to the corners of your face. Across your eyes and into your hair and I never knew how to bother being angry when you smiled like that.

The only time I can write is when I'm manic.
And the only time I can think is when I'm lying.
And the only time I can feel you is when you're gone.
So what if I told you I lied.