I’ve been collecting resin with your bobby pins that you left under my bed, that you let fall from your head, that you once laid to rest in the crook of my neck
It didn’t help at all that I’m the one you called It doesn’t help me like I know it helps you Just wait, someday soon we’ll be buried in the same tomb The earth will cover us like a bruise
So when did cigarettes start cluttering your hands? I ponder this some nights alone when I undress. And what do you do with those boys I see you with, or better yet, what would I do if you came back? I’d say no, or I hope I could, but I still want you. And what do you think I would do after you left? Would I stay sober? I think it’d be much worse. I’d cut my arms off. No regeneration.