I ask,
Why me?

When I see the old man,
sitting by my side.

An old man with a notebook,
listening to my monologue.

Saying,
that I am the one who's wrong,
for complaining about life.

But he doesn’t know
what it means to live in my skin,
to be the echo of a scream
no one wants to hear.

And I care,
because I’ve always
been the one who's wrong.