She’s his little yo-yo,

Stupid bangs

(he’s right they’re so dumb)

Bouncing in her eyes as she goes,

Updown

Updown

Updown.

She’s getting dizzy.

Lunch wants to come up

(he’s right I’m such a bad cook),

But she doesn’t let go.

She doesn’t free herself,

Though freedom’s in her reach.

She longs to hear those two words from him

("i‘m done")

Those two words which make it easier to spin

("i’m done" / "i’m done")

On his yo-yo.

It was always better when she heard them,

Always better when he meant them

(he’s done he’s done he’s done!!!).

Even ifs he could never trust them again

("just him" / "just her" / "it helps" / he really thinks it helps?!),

It would get easier one day.

Spinning gets easier

(it hurts, my god, it HURTS)

When you’ve been doing it for years.