Legs on black shingles, sun-soaked black tar,
If I let them burn long enough, they will leave a scar.
Ripping out your handwriting, sewn into my skin,
You are stitches made of salt, you are a poor cheater’s win.
I will drink from the dreamboats , toxicity high,
Get so drunk on lust that I’ll hopefully die.
They say eighteen is cool, I’ve seen proof otherwise;
Seen more ******* and *******, less truth and more lies.
And as this year happens, I feel like I’m throwing up,
Trying to purge out the bad, I guess this is growing up.
Driving in the fog with no headlight on,
At my funeral, I’ll be singing this radio’s song.
Clink martini glasses filled to the brim with blood,
Cheers to unrequited dreams and our eternal love.