I'm telling you:
         There must be a way out of here.
I love you with burnt fingertips, with chewed off nails and worrying frowns asking if maybe maybe maybe you could come and fix me.
Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever make it back home.

There's not much I can give you besides twelve suicide attempts and a scarred body.
Flowers don't grow near me. Flowers don't grow in me.
I've never been good with words, but you are a case unsolved, you are stubble-burn on sunday mornings.

Most days I am certain I could love you to ruins.
Most days my skin is too tight for me to move, most days my lungs don't accept oxygen, most days my eyes don't know how to stay closed and
I keep seeing things I don't want to see.
Most days I wonder when I stopped being a city and became an exit wound.