Where do I start?
With the beginning,
with today?
With the first time I cried,
my first bad rhyme-
the first person I loved
and the first time I played?

Things followed me.
Another kind of music,
the written word-
they kissed the ground I saw
and noted every flaw.
Little's left to dream anymore,
or so I've always heard….

I've known myself
as poorly as you
for all these years:
Did I mean to imply
that I'd never find
what all the other girls have
when I refused to leer

at the same men
under my sanity?
I tug at my belt
when I think of you crying;
the others are lying
'cause they tell me I'm crazy
but this is all I've ever felt.