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Home is where I thought I was |
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I must have been asleep. |
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I saw you picking fists of red and green |
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And some of them you keep, |
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And some you throw away |
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You always were a waste |
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You take more than you need |
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And now I'm |
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Afraid to close my eyes, |
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The air is full of ice. |
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Reminds me of the winter in your smile. |
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You looked for what was his |
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Took what he would give |
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Played 'till you were tired, |
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And when you had enough |
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You threw him out in the cold like a hair coming off of a brush |
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When you were finished you know he was nobody else's to love |
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And I remember he told me that every time that you touched, |
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Your skin was like |
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A bowl collecting blood. |
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I know he's gone. |
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I know he went away |
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I know he couldn't take |
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The sight of all those bodies in your wake |
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You're pretty like a snake |
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You're pretty like the ground |
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'Cause once you pull them in |
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You know they're never coming out |
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So shake another hip |
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And then you take another scalp |
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And they go out in the cold like the hair coming off of a brush |
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When you are finished you know they are nobody else's to love |
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And I remember he told me that every time that you touched |
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Your skin |
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Was like a bowl collecting blood. |
