I’m hiding my body under blankets,
Just like I’m hiding secrets under my skin,

And I’m building cities out of pills,
And the rivers aren’t running innocent water,
And I drive a car made from an old
pharmacist’s box and it goes pretty fast and crazy
when I pull on the lid-of-a-bottle steering wheel,
And my future’s being painted in blood
all over this addictive town.
I’m hiding my feelings in metaphors,
Just like I’m hiding injuries under clothes,

And I’m building cars out of old pill boxes,
The acceleration pedal pours something dangerous,
And the brake pedal is brief sobriety,
I’m driving around in circles and I’m trying to open,
I’d rather die jumping out of a moving car than…
I’d rather but the child lock has been put on,

Just like I’m hiding my sick skeletons
In a closet that never seems to end,

And don’t you know I’m not a kid anymore?
(When laughter rips open your jaw)
This isn’t funny anymore,
(When the punch line hit my gut,
then my head, then my gut again
when I was down -
sprawled and distraught)
And the tragic punch line is the fact that
I was never really a kid at all.