So we were sitting on a sofa on the first floor of the Hyatt because we were cold
and you couldn't stop looking at my eyes
(oh god my eyes my eyelashes my eyebrows oh god)
and my heart was beating
faster
faster
faster
(ohgodohgodohgod he fucking knows they're not there oh god)
because I knew my makeup was on and it's not like I was in the pool
(pleasepleasepleaseijustknowit'sthereandithastoberight?).

I smiled that nervous smile,
unprepared with an excuse that would be semi-believable even though it's been
five fucking years so I should probably have one by now,
and prepared with the full story
("oh yeah and by the way I pull my eyelashes and my eyebrows and my hair out
and yes, I do use my hands - yes, the ones you're holding right now that just five hours ago were
pulling
pulling
pulling
it all out.")

And I said, "What are you looking at?"
(this is the end this is the end this is the end oh god my eyes my eyelashes my eyebrows.)

And he said, "Your eyes are really pretty."

And my heart - yes, the one that just five milliseconds ago had been beating
faster
faster
faster
stopped beating
'cause you just said my eyes were pretty
(eventhoughidon'thaveeyelashes)
and you said yours were ugly 'cause they were brown and looked like poop
(but my eyes with black eyeliner for eyelashes were pretty)
and I laughed.