I spend my nights dead face down on my floor
but the drugs aren't really working anymore.
The nights are mostly just depressed
from staring at my open chest.
I'm bleeding and I'm heartless but I'm yours.
And I'm scratching down every blurry scene
on the mattress where you used to sleep and dream.
I'd rather chew on broken glass
than keep on living in the past,
and wasting time on words I know you didn't mean.
Dear everybody or whoever's listening
I think I'm gonna do me in this time.
This is all overrated,
waiting on my roof again this is the end
of my so called life.
I haven't seen the sun in about a week
and I'm keeping all sharp objects out of reach.
I finally know the taste of love,
it's a cross between cheap beer and blood
with an aftertaste of dry sarcastic speech.
And so I guess it's safe to say
that we both knew that I'd end up this way,
with a brain that's clueless and unsure
and eyes that hardly ever work but
I guess that's fine I rarely use them anyway.
Dear everybody, this is the end of my so called life.