You’re hearing things I didn’t say
Your hollow words flow freely—
that always seems to be your way,
to invent and assume things selfishly.
You build whole stories day by day,
from silence shaped so carefully,
then hand them back as if to say
I meant the words you made so willfully.
I speak in careful, measured ways,
you answer back so differently,
your louder version fills the space
until my truth is gone completely.
And still you claim the final say,
while I grow tired of being heard,
for every truth I try to say
is rearranged into your words.
But still you claim the final say,
convinced your version must be true,
but every story you betray
reveals what lies inside of you.