What if I could stay right here, under glass? I would gladly let you add to your collection of burns on my arms. A neurotic excuse to build distance from the side of the bed, and it expands beyond belief. And every self-destructive bad habit, a cherished gift from you. Gray, sallow remnant of a beautiful facade; singing to me, “Death is when the real fun starts.” Raise my hand to my throat, I can't breathe in here. The siren's near. Never, I never had to lie, and you're pulling books from the shelves to remind me, you never gave me a choice. Never, you never asked me why, in reverence, I still drag this behind me. I never had a choice. I don't blame you; if you'd let me I'd take more. This siren sound is our swan song. I'm in the back of the van drowning in cold survivor's guilt. And every poison look you throw my way, a cherished gift. Who’s singing who to sleep? Now you're just a pale, dead, gray face singing to me, “Death is when the real fun starts.” Raise my hand to my throat. I can't breathe in here, because now I’m drowning in cold survivor’s guilt.
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