A Symptom by You Me & Everyone We Know
Its a compulsion, really out of my hands.
To tell you all about you, making all the wrong plans.
But I grind my teeth, (grind my teeth)
And I'm picking this scar,
Anything to make it through,
A night at the bar.
Leave me with flat teeth, with fresh wounds,
Another nervous tick.
Please leave me on the kitchen floor, with my dignity,
While I get sick.
Clean me out like an open sore,
Say its me that makes you a whore.
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