(Lyin’ to You) Baby

We don't talk about anything
He brings me flowers and she brings me nothing
I want the feeling of her hand on my hip
And does it matter if I've been with him?

Do I look the way you want me to
Do I fit your specific point of view?
While you hold on to your guilt
You tell me how I'm supposed to feel

We don't talk about anything
And when the flowers stop I see what you missed
And you look at me, you look at me still like I don't exist

Do you think that you misjudged it, maybe?
I am still angry at you, baby
A line as bleak as your fist
I let myself in, I'm proud of it