She doesn't understand.
I'm not who she needs, I cannot save her.
my heart beats for her but her teary skies poor down and like Neptune's storms' sweeps away my love for her.
It fills me with rage
Makes me feel cynical
Her eyes tremble and her ankles ache, I ice every part of her body and kiss her tears away
but there's not a remedy for aching of the heart.
I'll save you from the bad man next door, I'll save you from the monster under you bed, but darling I can not save you from yourself.
stop digging your nails into your chest, you can't carve your heart out without dying,
carve yourself out of your casket instead.
sing to me the reasons why your eyes search for my hatred and cry when they find it.
i've told you time and time again that my cloudburst is no match for your hurricane.
no, this most certainly does not mean wait for me to cut you up with knives
no, this does not mean pack your records and leave
it means stay-stay at your own risk.
no, this is not a love letter, nor is this a letter reminding you to pick up your scrunchies on the way out of my chest.
I am not on my knees, nor am I cutting ties,
but baby i'm still feeling cold.
stop pounding nails into your chest,
put them in mine instead.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
She doesn't understand.
I'm not who she needs, I cannot save her.
my heart beats for her but her teary skies poor down and like Neptune's storms' sweeps away my love for her.
It fills me with rage
Makes me feel cynical
Her eyes tremble and her ankles ache, I ice every part of her body and kiss her tears away
but there's not a remedy for aching of the heart.
I'll save you from the bad man next door, I'll save you from the monster under you bed, but darling I can not save you from yourself.
stop digging your nails into your chest, you can't carve your heart out without dying,
carve yourself out of your casket instead.
sing to me the reasons why your eyes search for my hatred and cry when they find it.
i've told you time and time again that my cloudburst is no match for your hurricane.
no, this most certainly does not mean wait for me to cut you up with knives
no, this does not mean pack your records and leave
it means stay-stay at your own risk.
no, this is not a love letter, nor is this a letter reminding you to pick up your scrunchies on the way out of my chest.
I am not on my knees, nor am I cutting ties,
but baby i'm still feeling cold.
stop pounding nails into your chest,
put them in mine instead.
Listen to Small Hands - Keaton Henson