There are three of us.
Three who sit and fuss.
Three who sit and ponder, what to do next.
Three who decide what is our next conquest.
So often when something goes wrong,
(and it does; life is no song),
I wonder: who is to blame?
When did this all become a game?
It was I. I decided to do something spunky.
Something unlike me, something quite funky.
You see, she’s no good with the opposite sex.
She’s only good when she texts.
So it was up to me;
It was up to me to set the truth free.
So I told the boy, see boy, this is the deal,
We like you, so how about a meal?
Well, things didn’t turn out so well,
And the boy wasn’t so swell.
And now, now she’s blaming me.
To be fair,
It really was quite a dare.
And to be just,
To tell him, well, it was a must.
To see her agonizing everyday,
(someone usually as brave as pepper spray)
Was getting on my nerves.
For a first time, it wasn’t so bad.
But of course, she was mad.
It was the only thing which went wrong this year,
The only thing we tried to wash down with beer.
Well, number two sits quiet, as always.
For her it’s been a tough phase.
The two of us always squabbling,
She, always rationalizing.
It’s toughest for her, she is the public face.
The one we show in any public space.
And we, well we can squabble it out inside,
All her work and thoughts aside.
She’s decide what to do about it,
We have no choice but to wait it out and spit:
No boys? No boys, no joys, no toys.
Why, why would anyone make such a choice?
I think she blames me.
For setting her soul free.
Well unfortunately, it didn’t quite get free.
It got burnt and came back scorched,
And she, well she doesn’t want to get torched.
And so it is.
Rationalisations and straight faces.
Black ink and work cases.
We’ve covered up all the fear,
We laugh and chat and drink beer.
We’ll probably forget about it soon.
But sometimes.. well sometimes, she cries under the light of the moon.
Especially lately, when it rains.
The weather seems to bring out all the pain.
Under the speedy clouds and hazy city sky,
She sits and waits for the dark to pass her by.
And the next morning, she’s up once more,
Brewing coffee, chatting, acting skills coming to the fore.
“It isn’t acting,” she insists.
It’s just moving away from life’s occasional mists.
She doesn’t blame me anymore.
She isn’t one to keep score.
She knows the three of us are all in it together anyway,
So even if we want, we can never really stray.
But I wish she would stop crying inside.
(she doesn’t do it outside anymore, but I know it hurts within)
I do wish that silly boy would call her and take her for a spin.
After all, everyone needs to play truth or dare.
What is life without the occasional fright or scare?