It's like being punched in the face
Over and over and over
I wish we could be erased
And taped over with porn
Because my ears are gushing
It's the long, hot rush of a concussion
My head drawn on a Spirograph
So this is what it's like to rot
Like the backside of a bulimic's teeth
To curse the time you chose that wrong door
Like the spiders we swallow in our sleep
And watch yourself crash into things
Because you've just let go
Secretariat pupates
Everything's weird and incorrect
Possession? Obsession? Fate?
Select all that apply
It's too late now for facts
I've moved on to the sickness
So I'll pop some blister-packs
While you start your post-navel drip
Breakin' up is hard to do
But breakin' down is easy