There's a part of me missing, I must've dropped it on the ground
somewhere between all the times that you somehow let me down.
I don't speak when I'm anxious; I'm a pile of clumsy sounds,
an echo of meaning easily lost in the crowds.
Don't speak, I can't breathe, it was all for you.
Growing old is getting old, but we don't know what else to do
'cause I saw ghosts in the back of my head, crawled their way from the depths of my bed,
told me to break out from here and face what I dred.
There's a blackhole within me, it's slowly sinking deep
into my system and the parts of you in my bloodstream.
Maybe I don't mind it, maybe it does me good,
maybe it shakes my core just the way that it should.
Don't speak, I can't breathe, it was all for you.
Growing old is getting old, but we don't know what else to do cause
I saw ghosts in the back of my head, crawled their way from the depths of my bed,
told me to break out from here and face what I dread.
If I live with blackholes then, I crawl through my skin
til they swallow all the remains that lie within.
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