the boy with a torn up notebook and his conscious in a sewer drain

youre pretty. can i come over? sit in your bathtub? i need an escape. you can join me and we’ll sit together doing anything but confronting our problems (my first problem being how i wish youd hold my fucking hand even though you wont despite our proximity). too close, too far, not close enough and i wish youd get away from me. i want you. thats not the right thing to say, is it? fuck. im a little out of my mind. seriously, its like just being alive tapes a giant, shittily written “kick me” sign on my back. can never say the right thing. too comfortable with you but not comfortable enough. its cramped in this bathtub. remember last summer? yeah, no, me neither, its all a huge blur. dont think its worth remembering anyways. did you know i wrote a song about you? (more than just one song, really, but im keeping that a secret). the words are a jumble and im shouting more than im singing and if you listen close you can hear how my voice is breaking and my sister is telling me to shut up from across the house and i cant i cant i cant i cant i cant. fuck. youll love it. you will, right? keep it with you everyday, forever; in your pocket, a picture in a locket, something close to your heart, shoot it up your veins. let me crawl through your arteries, get real close. all i want is to be close to you. i wanna see your insides. show me the most vulnerable parts of you and ill still love you without a second thought, without question. what do you say we get out of here? this towns not worth shit, run away with me. lets never go home again. sorry. too much? no. never enough.