Look at me.
Just look at me the way you look at those other girls.
They’re everywhere, little miss ‘perfect’s
who have big breasts, big bottoms, blonde hair
what’s wrong with me?
Just because I don’t look like that.
Talk to me.
Just talk to me the way you talk to those other girls.
You know the ones I mean,
the ones that initiate conversation through the eyelids they bat,
through their smell that lingers as they walk past your table,
you just can’t help but want to talk to them.
What’s wrong with me?
Just because I don’t smell like that.
Be with me.
Just be with me the way you want to be with those other girls.
The way that you slide into your covers of a night
and ponder what it would be like to be in theirs.
I can’t help being who I am.
What’s wrong with me?
Just because I can’t be like that.
Well maybe I should stop watching you.
Well maybe I should stop imagining you.
Well maybe I should stop,
maybe I should stop being with you.