squeeze that solo out of me.
 

We're all living with a ghost.
Him with her - in the room she died in.
You with them - breathing their last in your arms.
In your arms.
Her with I.
Reading bedtime stories to calm me.

"Smells like" ****ing "teen spirit" in here,
he says a few more days.
I say.
Agony.
Who am I in love with anymore?
Myself? Or the idea?
Distortion confuses me, it's all I can hear.
I can't see straight.

The water hits me like icicles. I feel pierced all over.
My skin is bleeding.
All over your shirt.
All over your life.
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. It just happens.