You pointed a finger and it
went right between my ribs,
through my gut,
and cracked my spine on the way out.
I'll tell you something about blame, baby,
if you dish it out, you gotta be able to take it.
If I'm on my way down, you're in the passenger seat.
You'll never be able to cut me out of you,
we're both the cancer the other has,
I've accepted it and learned to live with the sickness.
Your turn.
You wanna point fingers, darling, do you?
Cause my tongue is loaded like a gun,
and I have a couple things to say.
You opened the door, and I'm sorry it slammed your ***
on the way out.
You have no claim on my stakes.
And I think it's time for you to go.
My cancer.
My sleeping sickness.
My static lullaby.