Call me the doormat,
The infestation of rats,
The ‘oh she ain’t all that’,
Call the kettle black!
Call me the diva, the princess, the moan bag,
The emotional one, oh isn’t it sad?
The hot head who can only nag nag nag,
That period trainwreck – a handful for a lad.
Call me whatever deflects most from what reflects
When you stand by the mirror and boast,
When you burn my heart to toast,
When you pinch my tears in your throat
….And swallow them like pudding.
But of course it is always I,
Obviously I have a complex, a defect
And my very existence is like an infection in your life!
Yet you’re the reason we met
…And keep doing so.
So call me what you like babe,
Keep calling me!
I won’t pick up, even now that you ‘behave’
Because it never stands even after you think you understand.
Itching at my insecurities, my flaws, my worth.
Bitch, like I’m intruding on your earth!
Trampling on my confidence,
bounce between follow and avoid
Then ask me – yes! – why I’m annoyed
And I like myself less and less
Because you transfigure me into shadows, crumbs, dirt
Till I question my self-worth.
So call me vain,
Say I’m throwing something special away,
But I love myself more than you,
So I’m giving you the boot.
Now they say ‘nice guys finish last’
But they’re tearing through my tape
And I don't think you run so fast
We will see who wins this race