there's something vaguely masochistic about
the receipts i keep in this notebook
the backs of which are stained
by words that wish i'd been less hopeful, like:
"the bottles love me more than you do"
i've been treading the line
between suicide and "everything will be alright"
but it's not working
and if i could just forget
my loneliness and your lack of it then i
might just believe that this was worth it
and i promised i would never mix
these desperate thoughts
with the wishbone on my wrist
if a man is only as good as his word is
then i'm scared my promise might break
the way that i did
and i promised i would never mix
the poison coursing through my veins
with a mind intent on spilling it
and i promised i would never quit
but it's not getting any easier
[c]
the bottles love me more than you do
i'm a heart attack and a half most nights
but even when i'm not, i know that
the bottles loves me more than you do
just going through the motions again
but i hope to god you understand
and i refuse to kill the daylight left in me
if that could ever make a difference
was i only worth anything until
i stopped meaning shit to you?
as if i ever did to begin with
i'm not making any kind of difference
the voices keep me up but they don't talk about
the coming sun or how i live to drive these demons out
the devil in my head's getting louder every second
i won't believe him but i can't help but to listen, cause:
[c]
but you don't
you don't know...
but i don't blame you
what if my star doesn't shine bright enough?
will it let the darkness take me?
cause the friends i found in these bottles are gone
and my grip on them is shaky
what if my promise breaks and my aching hands
can't hold off the devil anymore?
will he let the poison run its course?
will i even be worth remembering?
this is not a sad story
but it is about sadness
cause for months i've been addicted to
the joyless and the tragic
there are empties that never fill
and brokens that only half-fix
but i'd rather learn from my stitches
than pretend they never happened
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