Oh, well look at me being all concerned.
I can't wait for real life to start up again, but still half the time I hate it. Feel almost dead with this lack of feeling, and anything is better than that. I can't figure out what it is I'm waiting for, although something. I can't do this by myself, but I'm willing to run away from it. Grow up, I know. Stinging strap marks and maybe or maybe they don't disappear. It's me running away because I don't want to know what I am now, or find out that you've realised, but I hate you for it, sometimes. And you seem like such a little boy, so small, because you're so selfish now. But so am I, I know that, I can't stand things being this way, but it's fine for you.
I'm happy, happy because you, up there, who can look down on me so easily [being as amazing as you are], because you chose to. And I'm beaming all over the place. Admittedly a little scared, scared I'll let you down and that maybe I'm not good enough to make you happy. Like I want to, 'cause you mean that to me, like you do me. Scared to try in case I fail, and I know that's stupid. I want to. I'm going to, and I'm to make myself do a whole bunch of things that I've been too scared to do, I can't do it by myself, but I know you're there. And you have absolutely no idea how much that means.
Loves, loves, loves!
Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending: