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Michel

de Waxahatchee

Hands under my clothes,
We can't let it go.
You set it up masterfully
And then blame it all on me.

Cynicism smothering,
Implanted, blossoming in me.
Our fun is toxic and bold,
Embellished and oversold.

Embody me
Because I am weak.
I moved out
But I never opened my mouth.
I never opened my mouth.

It's late, I'm up on the roof
In new york. I hung up on you.
I can't pay for the mistakes I made,
So I'll just let this die and decay.

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