I don’t want a lecture ‘cause there is none
“What was up with the hair in my dream? Do you want hair like that? Do you think it would make your face look more symmetrical?"
I feel like if she doesn’t talk right now, she’ll be gone, swallowed up by the blankets, swallowed up by all of this
“Fuck your secrets! Who cares? I don’t care!”
“Oh really?”
“You’re never seeing me. You don’t see what I see. You see facades, you see walls, you see the bricks I’ve laid down in front of me and you’re finding it impossible to get through here.”
Sometimes, she says, she still feels helpless—frozen in that moment.
She’s not a part of it
“No you weren’t you liar. You were trying to find out my secrets!”
“Because—because I’m pretty.”
Little Timmy Mitchell in the picture’s almost dying
Yeah right
What did she just say?
“Awards?”
“My face isn’t symmetrical.”
“My stomach,” she gasps
At this moment I have the urge to start singing that song - but I don’t, and let the silence take over
Let’s get the kid dressed up in white just once
