I have too many secrets kept inside,
But I'll just tell you lies,
Or things that don't matter,
Cause I don't matter.

I don't want you to see me.

Someone once told me that
Each crease on your hand is a secret.
And my hands are both deeply lined,
With so many rivers and tributaries...

I have so many things I'm burting to say,
But like a lysosome,
I know if I tell you,
It'll corrode you and digest you,
And it's not worth the pain.
I'm not worth the pain.
So let me carry it all around,
My corpse just a messenger bag,
And I'll release them when I'm
*dead.