Straight to hell. Straight to hell.
I'm right here and I can't hear you screaming, and you would have thought I would. The windows are open and the sun is streaming in, if I can't hear you screaming then no-one can. I never thought you'd be this careless.
It isn't a real love thing. There are no butterflies when I think of you. Just a sinking feeling that, depressingly, yet again, I'm right. There is a familiarity to the curves of your shoulders that should feel like home but instead feels like death.
Oh no, it's happening again.