i know you like a house that looks like no-one is at home;
i know you love me more when i'm not reading you a poem
but i must empty cabinets and swing and shut the doors
i have to **** the bedroom lights and creak along the floors

so thank you for the space to *****, the room to pest and polter
forgive the spiders in your hair, the tapping on your shoulder
my friends are dead. their friends are dead. so i might die as well
we have no hope of heaven so i’ll harrow our own hell

i'm peeking out the picture frames; i'm haunting our own halls;
i am the yellow ivy in the papers on the walls.
what else, what else, what else, what else have i to do in here?
please. i just need to make it through another business year
because i need to make it through another endless year
so just lock me in the attic if you do not want me here