I say it doesn’t bother me, but it always does. It always will.
I hate seeing the face that you put on for the outside world.
The face that screams, I’m fine without you.
And I’m left wondering if that’s really true.
I can drive myself crazy. A prisoner in my own mind.
I see the way you interact, the way things seem easy.
Are they really easy, or are you just pretending?
And how can you keep pretending if you’re really missing me?
I think you’re happy, and that’s good. It really is.
But I don’t know which is worse:
You being happy without me,
or being just as good as pretending to be.