Stop, Just Stop
You read big books. / I feel so small. / Why arenât you small, / my love? / Youâve got big hooks. / They make me hurt. / Why donât mine hurt, / my love? // You are my automatic writing, / the red tattoos behind my eyelids, / but Iâm tired of firing squads, / of your bored, indifferent gods. // So when you feel brave, / Iâll be your stutter, / and when you wake, / Iâll be your hangover, / and when you try to get straight, / Iâll be your drug dealer. / So when you get paid, / Iâll gladly sell you // the wrong words, / the whiskey cures, / the last real hurt, / the one that craves / the wrong words, / the whiskey cures, / the last real hurt, / the one you hate. // My god, itâs gonna hurt⦠/ oh my god, itâs gonna hurt / when Iâm your modern American fuck, / the modern American love that fucks you up, / the one you canât love enough. // Iâll have you screaming, / âStop, stop, Iâm gonna be sick. / Just stop, just stop, Iâm gonna be sick. / Just stop, just stop, Iâm gonna be sick. / Just stop, just stop. Well, I give up.â // While youâre sleeping off / our nighttime madness, / Iâll be your slow dance, / your dime-store romance. / In the morning bed, / Iâll start again. / When you say when, / Iâll fuck you up and fill your head // with the wrong words, / the whiskey cures, / the last real hurt, / the one that craves / the wrong words, / the whiskey cures, / the last real hurt. // Oh, if I keep loving you, / weâll both be ruled / by cosmic fears. / If this is loving you, / yeah, if itâs this cruel, / the worst of it is here. / Yeah, my best hooks are here. / The worst of it is here. / Yeah, my best hooks are here. / Oh, I hope they hurt.