Tell me how the story ends!
I just want to know.
It's hard to see beyond the moment
when you're dealt another blow.
Tell me I'm the distressed damsel -
a knight in armour on his way;
The Deus Ex Machina 'round the corner
to materialize and save the day.
Because I don't need to be the hero,
the shining star that steals the show.
I'm not desperate for attention
when I'm feeling really low.
I need help because I'm cracking
under the pressure of the weight
of every little tiny thing
with which I've struggled as of late.
So don't tell me I can do it.
When what I need's a helpful hand.
Not just empty, pleasant words
that suggest but don't mean you understand.
Because I know who'll be the hero,
The steady hand that saves the show.
I asked you how the story ends,
but I guess I damned well know:
I'll suck it up, and take the hits.
Maybe a couple times I'll fall.
And when they ask me "How much credit..."
I will say, "I take it all."