Bethany

Who is it, you ask? 

It's almost funny

How oblivious you are.

You ask a series of questions

To gauge how much

He likes me,

All the while telling me

Your version of the perfect girl:

Athletic, tall, into all the 

Same things as you...

Everything I'm not. 

You don't realize that with 

Every word

You wrench a blade deeper

Into my heart as

I honestly tell you

He doesn't say I'm beautiful, and

He's never suggested 

That we hang out, and

He doesn't get my hints

You respond:

He doesn't like me. 

Somehow the words 

I know already

Kill me anew

You say I can't keep up

But you're the one who has

Fallen behind.

Who is it? 

It's you.