Content on getting nothing,
I’ll stick to the lines that have been drawn on.
I’ve been chewing ears for weeks and confidence is shot
but I can’t get by on my own.
And I’m sure that all my friends are sick of my bullshit by now.
The shoulders I lean on are turning into crutches.
I’ll have my wheels fall off and leave me somewhere else
but I can’t get used to being alone.
I’m no good at mending fences
and even worse at burning bridges.
I’ll just paint over the rust
and keep hoping for the best.
And I’m so sick of making faces suggesting I’m getting better.
And the weight of the world’s been lifted down on my chest.
And I’m sure that all my friends are sick of my bullshit by now.
The shoulders I lean on are turning into crutches.
I’ll have the wheels fall off and leave me somewhere else.
I can’t get used to being alone.
And I’ll work this out somehow.
I’ll wait for the wheels to break, to leave me home
where I won’t stick out my neck,
where I can’t hurt myself,
replacing confidence with lingering self-doubt.
There will be no more roaring engines.
There will be no more quickened heaertbeats.
I will attach myself to something I can love.
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