It's you.
You can't keep your eyes off me,
you can't keep your hands off me
when
you come to see me after dark,
your feathers soft under my touch,
your eyes laughing at me in the dark.
Oh,
call me up a help line,
write me up a letter:
Who do I call?
Who would know?
What do I do?
Mom would flip,
but
she doesn't need to know,
you tell me with your head on my chest.
And anyway we're not really sisters,
only half-sisters, if that,
so it doesn't matter when you
fall asleep with your hand in my hair.
And who has the time to worry?
Who has the time to care?
You could die tomorrow, after all:
that's how I lull you to sleep,
before I start thinking about
how we'll have to tell them someday:
I tell you that it's all my fault.