Am I the youth you pissed away, the reminder of the past you couldn't keep? They built over those streets you grew up in, and you built right over me with pretty things.
Mumbled words said in different ways, mumbled words that sting now more than they did
I can't believe that this brought you back to the start–or that you reclaimed anything lost. The best I can hope for is moving on.
There may never be another four walls that'll mean half as much as they did. Stained glass and cracked floorboards that I only now see in my dreams, fleeting fast with the years passing, coasting on an idea you picked up: that there's worth in a family ending, that in the end we're better off.
Mumbled words said in different ways, mumbled words that sting now more than they did.
When you're dead and gone, it'll be as if you were never here at all. Bitter words to your blackened lungs.
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