I don’t want to admit it But I’m waiting by the phone Waiting for a text or call Saying you want to come home But I’m just waiting Waiting waiting waiting Why don’t you come
I’ve cried in more dressing rooms Then I care to admit, I had the feeling that It wasn’t the clothes; It was me that didn’t fit. But we aren’t supposed to all Conform to “off the rack” shapes And grow and skink so that Our clothes can accommodate. We are supposed to be The standard they set. Our clothes should fit all of us So that we can feel our best Don’t let those numbers intimidate you: You’re the standard to be set. That’s what the clothing industry Hasn’t figured out yet.
Message me I want so badly for you to message me Anything, I just want to know That at least once I’ve crossed your mind And you couldn’t resist the urge To reach out to me I want so badly for some sort of reassurance That, to you, I didn’t mean nothing
I don’t even know why Or how it started but I began to cry Uncontrollably and You didn’t Understand why But in the past Arguments like that Would end in fist fights And cruel words So when you didn’t Lash out at me I couldn’t comprehend It