What love is for me
Is pillowcases and cold tile floors
Wilted salad and locked doors
Maybe it used to be love
A kind I'd always known
I don't even like myself
And on my wrists that's shown
A kiss or two
Equals a patch of stinging skin
When I'm tempted
I release the Devil I've within
I hate this and I hate everything I do
I hate love, my friends, myself
And I'm worried that I'm starting to hate you too