You Don’t.

You don't know the real me. You don't know what I feel. You don't know why I act how I do. You don't understand what goes through my head. Or why I say I'm heartless. Or why I write sad things all the time. Or why I'm so angry. You called me fake and I'll never forget that because in that moment you didn't know me. The real me, anyway. To know the real me, you must understand that I am depressed and broken and scared and raging. You think that I'm lying and called it an act. It was never an act, it was who I was.