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My Favorite Autopsy.
If you were to ask me why I’m sad,
I wouldn’t be able to explain why.
Everything feels normal when I’m not.
We enjoy the things that bring us comfort.
My comfort is the only thing that chokes me, while I’m being held.
I ran back to the open arms of sadness because anybody else’s touch is alienated.
It takes so much out of me starting over.
Just as much as it did when you left, or when I left myself.
I can’t really tell.
I have to dismantle my mind.
I’ve became a bomb.
Whenever I explode, it destroys me from within.
Yet somehow my autopsy only has evidence from past memories.
I wouldn’t be able to explain why.
Everything feels normal when I’m not.
We enjoy the things that bring us comfort.
My comfort is the only thing that chokes me, while I’m being held.
I ran back to the open arms of sadness because anybody else’s touch is alienated.
It takes so much out of me starting over.
Just as much as it did when you left, or when I left myself.
I can’t really tell.
I have to dismantle my mind.
I’ve became a bomb.
Whenever I explode, it destroys me from within.
Yet somehow my autopsy only has evidence from past memories.
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