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lyrics

So I’ve reached a stalemate
on an avenue’s edge seeing double
of the traffic ahead.
Haven’t worked up the courage to move yet.
I think I made myself sick.

‘Cause I called and I called,
and I don’t blame you for not picking up.
‘Cause every instance that you need me,
I’m fucking up.
And I fucked up.

And there’s pressure in my lungs,
and I’m biting on my tongue again.
Pressing me to stop,
but instead I’m self-immolating.
Waking up just to do it another time.
I brush myself off and I cut up another line.
I think you must have made me this way.
Oh god, I made myself this way.

If quitting’s not caring, but it’s tearing me up,
I suppose you’ll have to find me here
and call my bluff.
If quitting’s not caring, but it’s tearing me up,
I suppose you’ll have to find me here
and call my bluff.
(x4)

(Are you bored of sorting through my baggage?
And when I’m inevitably tied to the tracks
of my own train of thought,
will you cut the rope or turn your back to me?)

credits

from It Could Be Worse​.​.​. And It Is, released June 26, 2017

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The Fairview Boston, Massachusetts

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