My flame is going out,
and I don't know how to light it.
It's cold inside my chest,
and I just can't ignite it.

Saturated by the love I hate and the hate I love to feel,
I question every word because every word you say might not be real.

And when I lay in bed at night looking at the colors crawl across the ceiling,
I pray that when I wake up the next morning, they'll reflect the way I'm feeling.