I Turned Your Growler into a Vase for my Flowers
I turned your growler into a vase for my flowers.
All my friends point at my bad behavior,
but after being broke I have no fear.
They say I’m putting my life in danger;
but my friend became my love and my love is now a stranger.
I remember running down the alley
by the sports bar,
You’d think I was a Pall,
I swore to be a cigar.
To let me touch your lips
would conceive your affliction.
I was once for a gala,
Now I’m just an addiction.
I thought there had to be somewhere to go,
I was left in defeat when I found I’m alone.
They see the blood on my leg, but not the hole in my chest.
I bid them goodbye with all emotions suppressed.
I make bad choices, I make bad decisions…
What do I do when the rum stops listening?
They’ve notice me change to
“she’s so damn emotional”,
but I turned to crying,
left the circle of social.
I miss the days when I was the life of a party.
Now I stand in the corner hoping no one will bother me.
When there’s no one else to blame we turn towards our body.
With a smaller waist, maybe then he’d want me?
I look at myself, then question my worth.
I feel like I belong below the dirt.
I will tell you I’m doing great,
but I’m actually getting worse–
like when I walked out of the show
to sit alone on some curb.
My cries were muffled by the sub-bass
As I prayed for a coup de grâce.
Every morning I wake up with a new bruise, a new scar.
My skin is the climax of my memoir.
I keep putting on this act that I’m doing okay,
but they know it’s a lie by the tears on my face.
And now I feel so guilty for being so risky,
but I’m much lighter with the help of whiskey.
Not considering that my friends are here to hold me
and that my family is here and that they love me.
I’ll destroy them too if I’m self-destructing.
I use your growler as a vase, but that vase is empty.