If the bad times are coming, let them come, let them come But no because I don't want to and I don't want to say goodbye to this and the possibility of a future. There's a death drum and all I can hear is a certain song, skip-skipping on repeat.
A knife. A white gown.
Infiltrating my words, this is less about me and more about someone else.
I'm holding on to a nothing, again and again. I am skip-skipping. I am on repeat.