She’s a broken woman and there can be no real stopping that – she sits by her lonesome own and smokes a cigarette every other free minute, counting the people who have come to hate her
They never truly come but they do think about her now and then and grimace a helluva lot more, she knows full well that they do and perhaps they’re right to do so too
Some prosper but many fall
She cannot catch her breath anymore
To think what still lies in-store for her is ferociously agonising
She’s disguised herself by someone who she is not supposed to be ’til she starts to become that exact person – it’s incredibly sad by all known accords, not any true representation
And the relative looks seriously begin to fade and the conversation runs on toxic empty
Right now, hand on her stop-start heart she’d far rather be dead
Seems there’s no saving this life from here on in – irreparable damage done and right before she ever even got started
Heartbroken and all too stereotypically prone to endlessly asking “what if?”
We have to roll our eyes soon as she speaks – understanding because she sees exactly what we see
Thieved away and swarming in embarrassingly angst-ridden jealousy
She feels that pesticide poisoning might just be the best thing in the world for her, the final degree of freedom all-consuming
Rather simply done as no one’s been listening, the immaculate self-steal ’til at last she feels something
So you know, you let her down when she needed you the most
And She Floats On Up – cold and frighteningly bloated
Seems she never really held the supernatural ability within to come back from absolute impossibility
And to think, all that she ever craved was normality

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