There’s gum on your desk, honey, dear –
but you’ve gone and figured it out the hard way.
There’s something about the way you look at him;
there’s something about how you look around this
stuffy, stuffy classroom (they think they can lock us up).
There’s something about the way you cover up the bruises
in your mind. There’s something about the way
your eyes tend to water.

And honey, dear – yeah, I pretend to know who you are,
but we’ve never actually met.
And honey, dear – they all think they know who you are,
but we both know that’s not true.
And honey, dear –
we both sit at home and cry don’t we?
Because there are people all around us, but we feel so alone.
(See, I told you this would turn into
a cliché.)

So honey, dear – please get out my mind.
Because honey, dear – one screwed up teen inside of me is plenty.
I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy.
Honey, dear – you didn’t remember your lines. You’re suppose to say –
Yes you are. Oh, darling, sweet – oh, you are.
But you’re too busy laughing.

And honey, dear – and I don’t know who you are,
and it feels like we’re never met. I don’t like being a stranger.
Honey, dear – make it stop. But you’re the cause, aren’t you? Aren’t you?
Oh, darling, sweet. You’re so slow sometimes.