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 flirty |
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music |
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Himerus and Eros-Spill Canvas |
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Last night I swallowed liquor and a lighter and this morning I threw up fire.
But it's nothing new. I've been piecing it together and it's got something to do
with every look thrown like a knife across a crowded room.
Every slow and quiet car ride I spent drinking in the backseat.
Every stupid melody to every stupid song.
And every stupid word that everybody's hanging on.
What difference does this difference in age make?
I know how it ends... she'll kill me quick.
So call 911.
I'm already dead but someone should be caught
and held responsible for this bloody mess.
Last night I fell asleep next to a liar and I woke up with a shiner.
And it's all that I remember from a night spent lying on my back
with a view of a stone white ceiling and the back of your head.
This dark and quiet bed felt like the middle of nowhere.
We beat each other up just like we always do.
When I'm talking to myself I'd always rather be talking to you.
Call homicide. Take the case to court.
Her lips taste like a loaded gun
and I'm her number one chalk outline on the floor.
I got a twenty-dollar bill that says no one's ever seen you without makeup.
You're always made up.
And I'm sick of your tattoos,
and the way you always criticize the Smiths... and Morrissey.
And I know that you're a sucker for anything acoustic.
But when I say let's keep in touch,
I really mean I wish that you'd grow up.
This is the first song for your mixtape.
And it's short just like your temper,
but somewhat golden like the afternoons we used to spend before you got too cool...
So leave your lipstick at home.
Don't pick up the phone.
Don't bother to look in my direction.
I should have seen it all along.
Back in school they never taught us what we needed to know,
like how to deal with despair, or someone breaking your heart.
For twelve years I've held it all together but a night like this is begging to pull me apart.
I played it quiet, left you deep in conversation.
I felt uncool and hung out around the kitchen.
I remember I kept thinking that I know you never would,
and now I know I want to kill you like only a best friend could.
As if this happening wasn't enough I got to go
and write a song just to remind myself how bad it sucked.
Ignore the sun, the cover's over my head.
I wrote a message on my pillow that says, "Jesse, stay asleep in bed."
So don't apologize. I hope you choke and die.
Search your cell for something with which to hang yourself.
They say you need to pray if you want to go to heaven
but they don't tell you what to say when your whole life has gone to hell.
So, is that what you call a getaway?
Tell me what you got away with.
Cause I've seen more spine in jellyfish.
I've seen more guts in eleven-year-old kids.
Have another drink and drive yourself home.
I hope there's ice on all the roads.
And you can think of me when you forget your seatbelt,
and again when your head goes through the windshield.
And is that what you call tact?
You're as subtle as a brick in the small of my back.
So let's end this call, and end this conversation.
and is that what you call a getaway?
well tell me what you got away with.
cause you left the frays from the ties you severed
when you say best friends means friends forever
And it comes down to you.
Never and ever.
Wrecked his day with looks and flirts
and midnight in your shortest skirts.
Past the point of trying, I'm a dying breed.
Thank her for reminding me of all the things I've done completely wrong.
Stop these looks and letters.
This isn't for the better.
You put me down...
It's for the worse, you're not my girl.
Stop the circulation to my legs and break my bones.
Dateless and late, I'm better by myself at home.
Past the point of trying, and I'm dying here.
Secondary. She laughs at every word I know came out completely wrong.
Passed out on the overpass
Sunday best and broken glass
Broken down from the bikes and bars
Suspended like spirits over speeding cars
You and me were kings over the parkway tonight
And tonight will go on forever while we
walk around this town like we own the streets
and stay awake through summer like we own the heat
Singing "everybody wake up (wake up) it's time to get down"
(everybody, everybody wake up its time to get down)
And when I pass the bottle back to Pete
on the overpass tonight, I bet we laugh
Keep the noise low.
She doesn't wanna blow it.
Shaking from head to toe
while your left hand does "the show me around."
Quickens your heartbeat.
It beats me straight into the ground.
You don't recover from a night like this.
A victim still lying in bed, completely motionless.
A hand moves in the dark to a zipper.
Hear a boy bracing tight against sheets barely whisper,
"This is so messed up."
Upon arrival the guests had all stared.
Dripping wet and clearly depressed,
he'd headed straight for the stairs.
No longer cool, but a boy in a stitch,
unprepared for a life full of lies and failing relationships.
(Up the stairs: the station where
the act becomes the art of growing up.)
He keeps his hands low.
He doesn't wanna blow it.
He's wet from head to toe and
his eyes give her the up and the down.
His stomach turns and he thinks of throwing up.
But the body on the bed beckons forward
and he starts growing up.
The fever, the focus.
The reasons that I had to believe you weren't too hard to sell.
Die young and save yourself.
The tickle, the taste of...
It used to be the reason I breathed, but now it's choking me up.
Die young and save yourself.
She hits the lights.
This doesn't seem quite fair.
Despite everything he learned from his friends,
he doesn't feel so prepared.
She's breathing quiet and smooth.
He's gasping for air.
"This is the first and last time," he says.
She fakes a smile and presses her hips into his.
He keeps his hands pinned down at his sides.
He's holding back from telling her
exactly what it really feels like.
He is the lamb, she is the slaughter.
She's moving way too fast, and all he wanted was to hold her.
Nothing that he tells her is really having an effect.
He whispers that he loves her,
but she's probably only looking for sss...
(Up the stairs: the station where
the act becomes the art of growing up.)
So much more than he could ever give.A life free of lies and a meaningful relationship.
He keeps his hands pinned down at his sides.
He waits for it to end
and for the aching in his guts to subside.
The fever, the focus.
The reasons that I had to believe you weren't too hard to sell.
Die young and save yourself.
The tickle, the taste of...
It used to be the reason I breathed, but now it's choking me up.
Die young and save yourself.
Up the stairs: the station where
the act becomes the art of growing up.
The fever, the focus.
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