We're bombing out baby,
And I thought that maybe.
Oh, but it's messing with my brain
It's messing with my brain.
I do not feel the same.
There's nothing left,
No flame.
And I know I'm so critical.
One reason we're over:
I'm not one for getting too close.
Well, how about another:
Your hands were too clammy to hold.
We're bombing out. I know.
You don't care about me anymore.
You look at me like I shouldn't have been born.
You don't care about me anymore.
Sometimes it looks like you think I hate you too.
And I know I'm so critical.
I have feelings of regret.
I didn't want it to end.
My imagination isn't working.
How can I repress all of this hurting?
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