i hate facts.
the girls that walk down the street; i wonder what they hate.
i wonder if they yell until the cops come?
or cry when the sun goes down?
i wonder how they keep their pretty faces so simple?
how do they keep the sadness out of their eyes?
how do they keep the guilt out of their smiles?
do shadows fall on their pastel painted walls?
are they happy?
they look happy.
all of those pretty girls...
i hate the fact that those pretty girls would probably make you happier than i can.
im not a pretty girl.
and i hate that fact.
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