they’re all watching now waiting for a slip-up a mess up any kind of minor hiccup anything they can point their finger at

brown girl, what soil did you grow from? your roots are my roots but you sprouted so different

he loves the idea of you the cool, calm shell of you smooth like glass you suit him well he wants you wrapped around him

nights out at the club after a lot to drink you finally groove to me are drawn to me rhythm is the language it’s fixed in our eyes