I don’t want to obsess, but I’m caught in this unrest.
A beauty to be sure. She glitters and shines… enough to make him forget that he swore to be mine?
All I can think of is how she must look in that dress, or whatever she wears.
Does she know that she holds in her hands — my life, my love, and all she might tear?
I remind myself, don’t drop the plot, don’t drop the plot
Oh, how can I hold the line when he keeps leaving his spot?
I carry this weight and, in turn, I become heavy.
Does he think of me? I don’t know what to believe. What does it mean if the most I can say is “maybe”?
don’t drop the plot, don’t drop the plot
If only I could be more self assured, keep my love a little more measured.
But he knows, he knows how much I desperately want to be beloved, to be the only one that he’s thinking of…
Play your cards close to your chest — it’s all a game anyway, at least to him, at least to her.
But when you fight and you claw your way to dig out of a grave and somehow find a way to not go insane, then you look back you see you’re really no farther than where you were because you let him say your name.
You see, I already dropped it. The what? The plot, dropped years ago.
And I keep searching, searching for a place for my tears to go.
Tears for him, tears for me, tears for the things I don’t want to see.
He may be my weakness. I may be his afterthought.
don’t drop the plot, don’t drop the plot
I don’t want pity. I don’t want a lazy love.
I won’t beg at the table and wait for crumbs.
notthestateofmyhouse 