The fine art of making it out alive
Kiss me on the forehead,
angel, before I go to sleep.
I can't remember if it's Thursday or December.
I've been keeping track of days
by counting hangovers
and bottles on my floor.
My mangled memory is making me
mistake misfortune for forgiveness.
I don't think I'll make it out alive.
So promise me that
you'll survive to bury me.
Just empty all the alcohol
and chronicle the chemicals,
but don't forget the cigarettes.
Remember every ember.
Alright, I admit that past
few months were broken and abused.
Now I'm used to the bleeding
and unspoken words
that kept me so confused.
Maybe we can get past these addictions,
but the bodies piling up
are a whole other story
unless your stomach's strong enough.
Hell, maybe we can just pretend
that this recovery,
won't depend on moderation
and in the end the same routine
won't leave me dead.
Just empty all the alcohol...or baby, we're dead.
Tomorrow we'll wake up in time
to stop this double suicide
through kisses laced with cyanide
and one last look through blood shot eyes.
I guess this is what they call
killing yourself in small doses