| I say there’s more hurt than happy in my mind
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| Each time my chest aches
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| Like I can’t breathe deep right
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| But maybe I just don’t know myself that well
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| Or I’m up on the stage playing up the lies:
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| «Isn't he miserable?» |
| «Dylan, are you alright?»
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| You’re the only one that I’ve talked to tonight
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| If I’m being honest, it’s only cause I’m scared
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| Maybe I should learn to love myself?
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| It always feels better staying down
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| Maybe I’ll be happy in the end?
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| Should I hold my breath and wait for it?
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| It’s the same way that I’ve always been—
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| Talking shit for attention; |
| complaining for the eyes;
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| Telling every stranger I meet the same three stories
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| It’s not interesting
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| Feeling more paranoid than motivated
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| Turning down sex when I’m feeling depressed
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| And when I think I’m losing my mind
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| I have a chorus of voices who remind me that:
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| «Nothing you do is real
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| Nothing you feel is real
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| But it’s full of consequences.»
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| I’m spending a year out of my comfort zone
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| I don’t think I’ve ever been comfortable in my life
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| Or my own skin
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| So I spent a decade painting myself blue
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| Running from any hint of the truth:
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| I’m far too old to complain about dying alone
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| When I’ve been the way I’ve been
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| And I don’t think I can fix this if I find god
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| There’s no drug in the world that could possibly wash this off
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| I can’t even go down to the river
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| And stick my fucking head in it
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| The feeling’s gone
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| Just let me come back home
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| Let me wash the dark away |