biting my nails
pulling out my hair
anguish, my friend
when you are not there
but it's all so boringly tragic
when you tell me that you miss the magic
and I know I leave
my conscience at the door
trousers round my ankles
my pockets to the floor
but it does not make me better
just bides me time to write you this letter . . . .
"tired of you in my fucking head, needing you to jump right out of my bed . . . "
