I'd like to believe in one thing you say to me, would you like to leave? when i try to talk at all, it just turns out to be, turn on the stove, in the little tiny rooms that our friends calls a home, my head fills with heat, from the knife in your hand, to mine
I'd like to understand what you think about, why it seems so bad,its only escape from everything iknow im weak i know that im sad turn on the stove in the little tiny rooms that our friends calls a home, my head fills with heat, from the knife in your hand to my sand.