a street

sometimes I turn off the black little face of my phone

so that I can be alone

and not have to worry about you worrying about me.

I know you're expecting me home tonight

but I'm too young to be expected or predicted or usual

I don't want to be important or anticipated or waited on

I just need to be alone

I have to be alone.

sometimes I turn off the blank little face of my phone

so I don't feel at home

I don't want to be at home

have you noticed how little time I spend there

it's not because of family or mem'ries or suburbia

it's not because I hated childhood, it's because I'm too well denied

living inside a set of lines, that I made -- for my life.

I don't need to be spontaneous or individual or adventurous

I don't want to be a rebel, hopping freight trains like my father

so the only lines that defined him were the tracks he runs over and the states that he crosses

I don't need to be my sister, hitchhiking down the coast because 11th grade got complicated

and you can be sure that the pencil strokes of her note weren't the only lines she left behind

but I don't need to defy

I don't need to defy

I just need to not -- be defined

can you understand.

can you understand why sometimes I turn off the blank little face of my phone

even in a room full of people

just so I know that no one who loves me

can find me

and this isn't a cry for help, it's a plea for understanding can you understand

that I'm not -- old enough to be at home

I don't -- want to be at home

but this place is beginning to feel -- familiar

this room is as messy as the one I grew up in

you are as constant as a cat or a mother -- or a street

how can you be a street, without a home

you are -- a home

I am -- at home with you

but I don't want to be at home

I can't be at home

do you understand.

do you understand why sometimes I turn off the blank little face of my phone?

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