Little he knows, little he sees
The little he does is as dust in a breeze
The smallest amount of the things that I feel
A worthless account of that which is real
He knows not the warmth of the touch of his hand
He knows not the hurt of his every demand
That I stay in my place and forget what's inside
This burning sensation I'm trying to hide
The things I imagine when I'm on my own
He opens my eyes and I see I'm alone
Because little he knows, and little he'd care
If I hurt, if I cried, he'd remain unaware
He thinks that he knows so much more than I
He thinks he can tell between truth and white lie
They say there is pride before a