I wish I could pick up a vice to cope with these volatile moods. I guess cigarettes and coffee just don’t kill me like you do. Every time I comb my hand through my hair, half of it comes loose. You were looking at your feet when I was looking for an excuse.
So I’ll roll up my right sleeve and hope that I don’t seize. ‘Cause my left arm’s numb and everything tastes like Reds. Yeah, you fucked me up way more than anything else could have.
You are the tar in my lungs, in my veins, in my taste and on my breath. “Another day, another dose” has got me feeling comatose now. And nothing you could say or do or I don’t even know is gonna cut it. Now that the withdrawal has kicked in and I’m just begging for one more hit. Everything tastes like Reds.