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about
When your childhood best friend sexually abused you for years without you realizing it, you end up writing a song about it. Part of my weekly practice
lyrics
Your touch is too much
It makes me boil in all my bile and blood
And your guts are too tough
How do you stomach me and keep your mouth shut
There's no I in you, There's no you and me
I am the irony tearing open your dirty
Flipping through the pages and dotting every I and me
I am the Fiery feeling inside your mind but please
Ignore this tiring feeling of putting up with me
I'd like to stay, just one more day, I'm begging you to say
Your touch is like rust
Slowly building on my armor of trust
Your love's like some shrubs
I have to clean them, preen them, and keep them clean
When my I's in you, There's no I in me
You are the miserly wildling of a thousand dreams
The kind of creature that views a human as a bag of meat
A kind of feature that appears on every loading screen
Every film, phone book, and magazine
Don't want to stay, this ain't ok, I have the strength to say
You're fucked