She was only a child, the summer of '15 she had the world on a string, her heart so enclosed in a boys hands, she could never touch it. She had dreams, flailing around at the seams, when it was time to follow a new endeavor her string seemed to tear, along the middle.
She had insecurities, tall enough to reach out and choke her dead. She had no idea, her heart would have scurried at the first sight of lust, and forget the first one she had.
She had insecurities, enough to crack her porcelain skin. She showed them off, like a new depressing outfit, like a filthy rag. But when she did, you told her, "You're a *****".
She had insecurities, enough to **** you off. Luckily, enough to **** her off too.
My insecurities aren't something to determine my charisma by, try again.