One day with my best face, and it's in my arms my mother embraced.
Telling me how their other half couldn't keep a straight face.
She's age 17 with a common­faulted mind space, free her one and only.
What can I do? I'm a daughter of sixteen who deals with their conflicts, dumb and lonely.
Times like this I feel the pressure going down on me again.
Thinking that her other will see the clinic like I did after the end.
Ninth grade was the year and March was the month with the vial.
Considering their struggle, I went for mental acuity in a new Nile.
In a room with Blake and the others for a week or two, let my mind wander.
On the outside, my friends thought I was dead, oh how the teens ponder.
It's more amazing to think about how you realize someone's value when their gone.
Not to say they're dead, oh god, how I wouldn't dream it in a song.
Verses encased in an odd feeble mannerism, skeletal as stiff as their broadness.
Their parents could give a care less whether they're caring or careless.
To think we've only talked a few times, but they're the other mother to me, think less.
Shouldn't be feeling this way, but without them here, I'm just nauseous.
Watch the eyeliner when the tears start flying.
Bet she'd shed a few tomorrow if we said the queers started dying.
Just to set the record straight, I'd never even think of prying.
My mothers beat out my parents without even thinking of trying.