Eighteen year olds with worn blue jeans,
Laughing with alcohol in their veins.
And while you count your drinks tonight,
I’ll count every scar I’ve sewn into my mind.
And you can’t count all the jokes you’ve made,
I can’t count all my ******-up ways,
So I’ll bruise my mind and try to steady my hands,
But I can never meet depression’s demands.
I’m so tired of crawling under my own skin,
I just want someone to let my bad parts in.
But how can I expect someone to love me
When I can’t even like myself two days out of the week?