it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter,
there's no one i can't be
when i'm alone,
there's no one i won't love
where i'm on my own.
there aren't any numbers left to dial,
you know?
there aren't any dreams left to me.
a vibrant childhood,
i have dreamt them all already:
have stood them all up in a line,
and toppled them like dominoes.
it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter,
there is always another game to play.

it doesn't make sense
that i should work this hard
to become all these things:
and i can be many things, have many faces,
be sweet when you think i should be
and soft when femininity is impressed upon me
and hard like steel when
you force my hand, words like daggers
when you make me mad.
it doesn't make sense, then,
that there is nothing here that is attractive
but i cannot seem to keep you,
i cannot keep my hands on you,
i cannot keep you in sight.

i suppose it matters less when
there is enough money to go around,
or enough love--
aren't they the same?--
but it is nice to feel cared for.
and what i am capable of becoming,
the woman i am capable of being,
doesn't know how to be cared for any more,
doesn't know how to take your
outstretched hand
as well as i'd know how to take
an upraised fist.
isn't it sad, isn't it sad,
it doesn't matter.

somewhere far away there is a home
and it is mine.
on weary feet i move towards it now,
stepping into uncertainty for the hope
and the fear that there will be something
on the other side when i arrive.