I thought I fell again into an old friend,
but it seems it was only a mirror.
I roll the dice, convinced I can pay the price,
on about she screams out but I can’t hear her.

Who’s worse, the one who steals the memories
or the one who just gives them away?
It seems whatever is remaining of me
is the only part I didn’t wish to stay.
I’ve got fingertips pressed to the temple,
pushing inward forcing it to shake.
I’ve won the battles of heart but not the mental;
my brain fires pebbles at the glass hoping it will break.

Take the path less walked on
make sure to leave no tracks behind.
Even if it ends up being wrong,
you won’t be able to change your mind.
There won’t be any mile markers,
no breadcrumbs and lacking footprint.
The hunting dogs coming won’t be barkers;
next time drop your fingernails or lint.

Who’s worse, the one who steals the memories
or the one who just gives them away?
Don’t mean to keep them in the treasuries
but didn’t expect to see them stray.
I’ve got fingertips pressed to the temple,
pushing inward forcing it to shake.
With each thought just more sentimental
but I’m questioning if those feelings are fake.

Put your foot down on the gas
say “shut up and drive”
and with each town we pass,
I’m surprised we made it out alive.
This may just be the last
time that I emotionally dump or strive.
No this isn’t confession, it’s not mass,
it’s a witch hunt in the shape of a bee hive.

Who’s worse, the one who steals the memories
or the one who just gives them away?
Turned centuries into accessories
then didn’t like how much they weigh.
I’ve got fingertips pressed to the temple,
pushing inward forcing it to shake.
It stopped being a problem or detrimental
when I laid the dead flowers at the wake.