I'm not too fun to be around these days
so I think that I'll just stay at home
alone with my anger and my hate
and this bitter taste in my mouth from
all of the nights I spent in this house
by myself on this couch wishing there
was some way I could wake up as someone else.

Because nothing I try ever turns out right.
And my friends wonder where the hell I've been
and why I can't have a good time.

I'm fucking lonely. I'm thirsty for those days
when everyone and everything I love and trust
had yet to fade away.
But now they're fucking gone and I'm happy she found someone
but this loss feels like a noose around my neck and these failed
attempts feel like glass in my chest.

Because I'm wasting time learning how to fly
when, in reality, I can barely walk a straight line.
Because nothing I try ever turns out right.
And my friends wonder where the hell I've been and why
I seem to have given up on life.

I hope you know that I measure our greatest nights with the bags under my eyes.
But these days I sleep too much and I'm getting better at losing touch.
And somewhere there is a piece of paper that my parents paid to frame.
It's a reminder that I should have tried harder.
There's no one else to blame.

This Summer, I'm staying home.
Don't call, because I won't pick up the phone.
And one day, I'll just pack and go
and no one will really have to know.