He takes off his sweater
A birthmark
Marks his skin
And through the window
He's made to be like a god
She paints the lips red
From the holes there they appeared
And in front of the TV
Her skin becomes
Pale and yellow
Before the TV
Anyone becomes ugly
I hate you
You are...
I hold the hand in front of me
But there is a hole
So I still see
If you knew how ridiculous
You look
And I run past
Hitting cars, triggering the alarm
I am the boy
Who shot the rocket
In his own hand
No one
Can fix a broken hand
I hate you
You are...