Behind Closed Doors

But you do not know what I do behind closed doors.
Even when I profess to be this neat freak,
You do not even stop to consider
that all the world has flaws.

I'm hiding behind walls, baby
I'm concealing true identity
behind tightly shut doors.

I'm coming out, coming out of my closet,
But not baring my name nor my shame.
I spit lies like wild fire when I come through.
I alter my personality when I step to you.

My name is Clara anorexic, crack head,
but I tell you it's Clara Obama instead,
because, like every freak like me,
I'm too ashamed to be me.
So, I claim to be apart of the White House's first black family.

I cover up. I cover up with make up,
because suddenly, if your face is made up
you do not have to worry about another breakup
from yet another boyfriend
too cowardly to tell the world
that he likes his girlfriend
just the way she is.

Ooh, it's too close for comfort,
too close for comfort,
yes, too freakishly close for comfort.
I'm not comfortable with my clothes
clinging to me like a baby to its mother.
I'll holler, because I'm thinking
that what you're thinking is,
"this girl's got multiple tires and a fat behind."

You, you, yes world, you,
you do not even know this,
I question myself in mirrors in a split second.
I take a second to say,
"mirror, mirror on the wall,
do you think I'm fair at all?"

World, behind the wall hide I from you,
and each day "the I" greet you
in the halls of the school
and the pews of the church.
But world, does "the I" really greet you or "the you?"
World, were you and I told by the mirror on the wall,
"you're too fat, ugly and flawed to go to the ball."