Disbelief, oh, disbelief.
I must have told a few truth in lies.
I must have died a million times.
Does it make me a bad person if I
told you I lie, and lie, yet I don't ever cry?
I don't cry when I lie, I don't feel bad about it
and I won't feel sorry for you believing it
because on the third lie, you know.
And it's all disbelief, it's all disbelief.
'Tis I know, though hollow it sounds.
A lie becomes the truth when it's used
more than a few times, but maybe that's a lie too.
But I'm the lie. I've lived a lie,
and she's nothing like me.

Though sometimes I wonder who the
real me is, and where she is,
is she happy right now?
If the person you are when you're alone is,
maybe that's the real you,
then I'm such a sad person.
Tell a lie, a tell-tale, a gossip;
but o, who's me.
O, who's me…?