Your head a mess of guilt and blood-soaked bedsheets
You left in the dark of morning with your head down
You learned the curves of the road like the shape of his subversive body
Winter morning on your windshield, running on empty
Between whiplash from the weather and your erratic tone
I grit my teeth, you talk down to me over the phone
It’s not the kind of love that feels good, but it’s one you can’t escape from
Makes my heart skip beats like car wheels on a gravel road
I’m thrashing as glittering waves of orangе poppies crest over my hеad
Vultures circle over highway one
I come down washed up under cliffs bleached by the sun
My body falls apart again
In Pasadena, Portland, Oregon, where you dig your holes
And watch your life unravel day by day in semi-precious stones:
They glitter under blacklight and tabs of acid
You find yourself alone
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