ME

[Verse 1] Do you like yourself…? That question hits different when the room gets quiet. I heard it in a book, and it stuck like a splinter— Not “do you love yourself,” but “do you like you”—simpler. I used to think “liking me” meant I felt okay, Like happiness, wellness, baseline “I’m fine today.” But now I’m seeing I might’ve missed the frame— Because I know what it is to like someone else by name. I like people for their pull, their light, their weird little ways, For what they bring to my life, for how they shift my days. Sometimes it’s admiration, sometimes it’s comfort, Sometimes it’s novelty—something I can’t even put words on. And yeah, I know this part’s twisted but it’s true: You can love someone you don’t like… how the hell do you do that? Like affection with disgust—heart says stay, mind says move— That’s a contradiction I don’t want to learn to be good at. [Hook] Do I like myself… or do I like applause? Do I like who I am… or the way they nod? If nobody clapped, if nobody called, If I was alone—would I still stand tall? I like being liked… and I hate that it’s loud, ’Cause when the praise fades out, I don’t know what I’ve found. [Verse 2] When I ask if I like me, I get stuck in the wires— There are traits I claim, but are they mine… or desires? Like do I like my grit, or the respect that it earns? Do I like being kind, or the way “good guy” returns? Because somewhere along the line I started collecting tastes— From friends, bosses, lovers, family… wearing their expectations. “If I like what they like, then maybe they’ll like me.” That’s the blueprint. That’s the trap. That’s the needy part of me. It’s not that I’m empty, not that it’s all fake, But the external volume is loud, it shakes the whole place. And when I dig deep, the overlap feels insane— What I “like” about me lives in other people’s brains. So how do I separate it? How do I clean the lens? How do I find what’s mine when I’m not being “seen” by them? [Bridge] I do this thing—I chase extremes to find an anchor, Black and white on purpose so the gray don’t yank me under. Like—trap me on an island, no crowd, no praise, Just me and my thoughts for a thousand days. What would I value then? Who would I be then? When there’s nobody to impress, what’s left in the mirror? [Verse 3] And here’s the part that hurts—my inner voice ain’t kind. If I talked to a friend like I talk to my mind, They’d leave. No debate. No closure. Gone. So do I actually like that I’m “kind”… or is that just a costume I put on? If I’m not kind to myself, am I really kind? Or am I just polite on the outside while I’m violent inside? So I’ve been practicing—like a weird little skit, Two versions of me in a room when I slip. Me: “Ah, you piece of—what the hell were you thinking?” Myself: “Yeah… no. That’s poison. Try again.” Me: “You made a mistake. People make mistakes. You’ll learn.” Me: “This doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. It doesn’t mean you’re dirt.” Myself: “…Yikes.”