I don’t think you want to understand.
At this point, I can’t put up with anything anymore: your hair, your always sleepy eyes, the way you close your lips, that walk, so damn dragged.
It’s just a way to draw attention anyways, like when we were younger.
Always ready to cry, to say you’re good-for-nothing.
And I’m always there to console you, but listen, I really hope this year you won’t get away with it. So you’ll learn once and for all. You’re good, you’re good, if only you had lifted a finger.
And you go around in circles only because you wanted to. You put yourself there, still, like on display. Everything is owed to you, always. And I can’t take it anymore, honestly I really think I hate you.
At this point.
But I hope I never have to tell you. I hope you’ll decide to get off your high horse and get back to pedaling.
