Chasing the lie, tracing our scars, moaning for help, to be held.
And every day we feel further away from ourselves.
The concrete is wet I feel too comfortable.
My responses are limited to reactions.
And everything dies its little deaths everyday.
So with my head up my ass and my foot on the gas.
I set out to write a synonym for loss.
Hands caught in the door and my face on the floor,
I'll write one for you.