Everytime you call me crazy, I get more crazy. What about that? And when you say I seem angry, I get more angry. What about that? […] No one likes a mad woman. You made her like that.
I knew I’d curse you for the longest time, chasing shadows in the grocery line. I knew you’d miss me once the thrill expired, and you’d be standing in my front porch light. And I knew you’d come back to me, you’d come back to me.
I can see you staring, honey, like he’s just your understudy, like you’d get your knuckles bloody for me. […] (‘Cause you never gave a warning sign) I gave so many signs, so many signs, so many signs. You didn’t even see the signs.
She’ll patch up the tapestry I shred. And hold your hand while dancing, never leave you standing, crestfallen on the landing with champagne problems. Your mum’s ring in your pocket, her picture in your wallet. You won’t remember all my champagne problems.
While you were out building other worlds, where was I? Where’s that man who’d throw blankets over my barbed wire? I made you my temple, my mural, my sky. Now I’m begging for footnotes in the story of your life.
My pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand, taking mine but it’s been promised to another. […] He’s gonna burn this house to the ground. How’s one to know? I’d live and die for moments that we stole, on begged and borrowed time. So tell me to run.
And I fell from the pedestal, right down the rabbit hole. Long story short, it was a bad time. Pushed from the precipice, clung to the nearest lips. Long story short, it was the wrong guy. […] Pushed from the precipice, climbed right back up the cliff. Long story short, I survived.
I’m like the water when your ship rolled in that night. Rough on the surface but you cut through like a knife. […] The more that you say, the less I know. Wherever you stray, I follow. I’m begging for you to take my hand. Wreck my plans, that’s my man.
And I’m sitting on a bench on Coney Island, wondering, “Where did my baby go?” The fast times, the bright lights, the merry-go. […] Were you waiting at our old spot, in the tree line, by the gold clock?
I replay my footsteps on each stepping stone, trying to find the one where I went wrong. Writing letters addressed to the fire. And I was catching my breath, staring out an open window, catching my death.
I don’t like anticipating my face in a red flush. I don’t like that anyone would die to feel your touch. Everybody wants you, everybody wonders what it would be like to love you.
