you let me down for the last time.
where did it all end? or maybe i'm hiding it all. sometimes whispers through your window late at night are just what you were waiting for. we have to take that phone and put it in the mail box or else we're only letting ourselves be shoved into that box and mailed from black-eyed aquaintance to black-eyed aquaintance.
accuse me for killing myself, but what's killing me the most is sitting in your waiting room watching the clock take my life away. i'm walking out that door and never turning around. this back is open for knife season and shit talking, but when i'm gone and you wondered where your life went you will have to come find me. so good luck.
and i wash my hands of you, getting on with my life. i'm getting on with my life.
accuse me for killing myself, but what's killing me the most is sitting in your waiting room watching the clock take my life away. i'm walking out that door and never turning around. this back is open for knife season and shit talking, but when i'm gone and you wondered where your life went you will have to come find me. so good luck.
and i wash my hands of you, getting on with my life. i'm getting on with my life.