I know you. I know who you are.
I see through your translucent persona when you try to beguile me with your charms. I feign interest and you’re sated.
I know you, the one with impossible standards, but just for me.
I feel you, and your rationalizations as you deign to explicate. I want to tell you to shut up. Your eyes are red and your ass is flat. You always wear those low-cut jeans and that big, black belt with the big buckle. Why?
I am you, I am the one that surprises. I am what you do not believe I am. What you cannot believe I am. So I’ve won.