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“Can’t You Just…”
A shrug, a grin, “You’re better, see?”
Dropped the ball—again—carefree.
Burnt the toast, forgot the chore,
Left the mess and asked for more.
A tangled web of small mistakes,
Too many spills, too few breaks.
The other watches, calm in face,
But furious deep beneath the grace.
“It’s not on purpose,” they insist,
While every task is somehow missed.
Funny how the job goes fine
When no one's watching, drawing the line.
A clumsy act, rehearsed, refined—
A quiet scheme that’s undermined.
It isn’t skill they lack or lose,
It’s choice—they’ve learned to not to choose.
So one picks up what’s left behind,
The weight, the work, the ties that bind.
It’s not that they can’t carry their share—
It’s knowing someone else will care.