The grass is greener on the other side;
The other side of our mind's war;
The other side of our memories in that car.
But I can still feel the weight of your truck on my shoulders.
I paint my nails the same color that brought you so much guilt to mourn.
I still wonder what it means to you;
What you'll say about the cipher in my pretty puzzle words?
Does it reach the back of your brain and make shivers go down your spine?
Or does it simply mean you'll never be mine?
The type of mine that wouldn't mind if I made your same mistake.
That glorious, fabulous mistake of showing me compassion.
Is that what I owe you? My compassion? My care?
My undying correctness and courtship?
I think not. Not when you're listening to classics in the car you might turn over one day, drifting recklessly through my heart.
And for some reason, some really odd reason, I still felt like I owed you my looks, my personality,
My way of running away from reality.
Remember when you pushed me? Or when you threatened to kill me and laughed?
And then I'd be left with guilt and anger.
My lipstick marked the cigarettes with love and a smoky haze.
All because the stress was too much during the conversational maze.
