Feeling like a left hand when I want to be right.
Out of place with the lives I see everyone else
I wanna make a mess but
So I run, spilling my bags and dropping my papers.
I tend to let them somersault across the yard and into the street.
No time to clean up—I wanna make a mess but not like this.
I’ve got words to say and people need to hear me.
And yet wherever I go, there You are. Surely, there You are.
I am prideful and embarrassing—the headliner, no doubt.
You aren’t one to demand the last word.
Loving me keeps You preoccupied.
It’s when I drop my mic, blink away the spotlight-burn
that I notice my clutter is neatly in my bags, my papers returned.
You make me feel important when I don’t deserve it.