Not An LA Kind Of Girl
I don’t fit in here.
I don’t fit in here.
Someday none of this will matter.
I’m keeping things to myself in a way I never have before and it feels like the most risqué things I’ve done in years.
I’m standing outside of the airport, trying to justify being the kind of person who shows up at an airport in a dramatic fashion.
I wish I could write something poetic about us.
I don’t consider my life poetic but if I did, this would be the opening stanza.
We both had to get new sheets after that summer because they were all stained with fruit juice, wine, sweat, and summer could’ve/would’ve/should’ves.
If you can’t handle the truth, you can’t handle me.
It’s not something you could ever swallow, is it?
Because you have a dog who has so much life left to be lived.