It's all a performance,
Steady your chest.
Your ribs are shaking out of tune
Pattering lungs, you're turning blue,
Itching with twisting of adopted mannerisms,
I scratch at them like fleas.
I plead that you won't kill me
With my own name, please.
Nonetheless, I asses the losses:
Shitty paint with shiny gloss,
And hardly enough time to let the coat dry.
It's a reservoir played pretend,
At least by then, who would choose this?
She said, "You must be a friend,
And you can, call me clueless!"
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