The thing is

You think I'm so cool and I'm really not.

B said,

"Stop telling her she's cool, you'll give her a big head".

Because she thought you were being strange, or really I would, or because I can't say anything back when you say that?

I can't work out why you think I am.

There's nothing conclusive and brilliant ab0ut me.

You can sing and make people laugh, make audiences laugh.

You're open and honest and kind and you always know what to say.

I am not really anything. Scabby skin (yours is luminous gold)
shrunken into myself and so secretive

And most projects are doomed to fail

So wishy washy

And I can't believe anyone worth liking will ever really like me. Friend or otherwise.

I'm worried B doesn't.

And I'm so trivial and obsessed with things that don't matter, I'm such a narcissist, I get people wrong and I do things wrong.

And why?

Do you think I'm cool?

Why do you say it when

you're so much better, infinitely so.

In fact, if I was as honest as you are

I'd be responding with a cannon's bomb

of effusive comments.

But I'm not.

I lie.

And so I'm left to puzzle. And dip my head and laugh

chin down and thoughts inside

So you'll never know that I'm hoping

the reason you think I'm cool is that you're as wild and deluded about me as I am about you.

Some hope.

I replay a scene. If we were out together holding hands and someone shouted something vile. I know what it would be, ginger pubes and blondie, or preying mantis and beetle, or something to do with your smallness and my height and boniness, or my hair, or yours, or us. And I would turn round and shout, 'she's beautiful, and I don't care'. And we'd hold hands tighter and storm off, heads high.