How do you know that I'm not real?
How do you know that you are?
You cannot tell me that you're better than me,
So shut up and let me be. 

I watch them speak with golden tongues,
Their laughter rings like cathedral bells.
I shrink behind my folded arms,
A shadow cast by someone else.

Their feet are sure, their gaze is firm,
They own the ground I walk upon.
I stumble through a borrowed voice,
A minor note in their grand song.

How do you know that I'm not real?
How do you know that you are?
You cannot tell me that you're better than me,
So shut up and let me be.
 
My thoughts arrive with broken wings,
Too soft to rise, too slow to land.
While others paint in bold, bright strokes,
I smudge a line with trembling hand.

They do not see this weight I wear,
This coat of doubt stitched thick with fear.
Each step I take, a question mark,
Each glance confirms I don’t belong here.

How do you know that I'm not real?
How do you know that you are?
You cannot tell me that you're better than me,
So shut up and let me be. 

Yet still I breathe, I write, I wait.
A seed can sprout beneath the stone.
And maybe in this quiet smallness,
There’s strength in being not yet known.

How do you know that I'm not real?
How do you know that you are?
You cannot tell me that you're better than me,
So shut up and let me be.

How do you know that I'm not real?

RTC765