Doing acid on my bedroom floor for the first time in what feels like years
The light from my lamp dances on my ceiling a lot like you used to when I'd come to your dance classes
But you gave up on that years ago
Around the same time you shot me twice in the chest, one in my heart and one in my back
I hadn't been able to walk a single step since
and it's all your fucking fault

But where's the line between missing what one was and feeling sorry for yourself?
Between nostalgia and the shocking realization that one day you will be nothing more than the dead flesh in the ground
And that maybe, just maybe, if you make enough memories you'll have something meaningful to think about when you're trapped inside your mind for the rest of eternity

This message has been brought to you by angst ridden aliens
This message has been brought to you by angst ridden aliens
This message has been brought to you by angst ridden aliens