Just a good guy with bad luck.
That's what we all say, right? The party-line becomes the lifeline. There's no sink, no swim. There is only what is and what isn't.
And excuses.
The front of the rim, the lips of a pretty girl. We handle rejection as it is given. Always an inch from glory, a dish best served.
Now? Never? Ever.
Cliches provide cover to scorn a lover. They serve as a buffer from one to another. It's not you, it's me. It's not me, it's we.
It's irrelevant just how you spin it, when there's only one of us whose truly in it. A walk through hell. A lie you choose to tell. Just leave me grasping for straws, but hold your applause. It's not any less shitty because you're pretty.
Just a good guy with bad luck. Another girl who refuses to give a fuck.
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