The lullabies you wrote in my mind are starting to sound like screams.
And meanwhile she is writing the words "I'm sorry" like it's all that she has left,
Because maybe as she throws up on the bathroom floor
Maybe it is all she has left.
And he's running circles in my dreams begging me to get him out
As though I'm the one that put him there,
And I'm starting to believe that maybe I did.
And he's writing down clichés for me in places my mother would not approve
And he titles them as ****** love poems,
But he still believes they're better than mine.
And I'm writing my own obituary on my hips
The same way I used to write suicide notes along my wrists
Because your lullabies are screaming that maybe that's the only way I can feel again.