They say you can’t cry over spilled milk
or a couple broken threads,
but this day is unraveling
minute by minute
and I’m trying so hard to keep my head in the game.
I walked out into the world
with my shirt inside out
and this morning they don’t notice,
because the ones who should, can’t
and the ones who can’t, do
but when they ask you what’s wrong,
how can you say, “It’s you”?
How can you say, “It’s me”?
The fabric’s sliding fast
and I’m not quite sure how much longer I can last.
Makes me wish you could’ve worn
your shirt inside out for a change.
Maybe then I could’ve seen what you really thought.