fifteen (the monologue) No time to cry, No time to cry. just because i have the practice and capacity to bottle up like a metal tank doesn't mean it can't explode. skin my body and make a drum out of it. i know, i bet, i reckon that it still won't say it was a bad time. i know i bet i reckon the drums will only echo what she had convinced her hazy memory to recite: "everything is nice and rosy, privileged and cozy." just because i have a thick skin, thick enough to let you make drums out of it, doesn't mean i can't ha
