Tuesday, August 2, 2011

I grasp straws.

I crave the truth, need to know what's going on inside your head,
But I pretend it doesn't matter:
I play it cool, cucumber-esque
And you don't say anything
Because I don't ask the right questions -
I'm afraid I'll hear the wrong answers
Even though I'm not sure I know what the right ones would be.

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