sons of divorce
We are the kids with the bags on our back
It's not the distance to travel that disturbs us
In fact the further the better, so they only see us
it is the sense of not belonging to the second home.

The one where the closet is so empty it stay close
Where the bedroom is still childish
Because we don't bother to change it at all
the one where every time we have to ask others
what color their toothbrush is, to find ours

We don't really know why all that happened
We were too young back then
Nobody really said anything
Nobody ever felt like share

we have fragments, that's for sure
mostly insults plasmed from revenge
Words that slipped from one of them
Clues we jealously keep inside
And of which we think about at night

Of course, they are contradictory
As if mum and dad never even met
And they had lived different dreams
With all of us as witnesses

© khloè