Sipping lemonade in the sidelines,
And gazing at the ground.
Those weak and sunken eyes,
With hair matted and lips cracked.
You are no Juliet, no Elizabeth, no Jane;
Just homesick for the parents you ran from.
Practising lines in bathroom stalls and hoping to get by,
You pawn the ring a boy long ago gave you,
In hopes that they’ll notice you tomorrow.
