I'm in Max's basement with a bag of pork rinds
that expired in the 90's.
How in the fuck are these supposed to taste like barbecue?
I'm not welcome here anymore.
So tomorrow night I'm facing sleeping in the car,
I don't have enough gas to get home
and this family don't love me no more,
since I fell for her upstairs.
I've got a list of people that I'll never make amends with,
petty as the ones who cared about who I was friends with.
I've drank too many nights away to bother remembering my fuckups,
but sometimes they come up;
sometimes the wind blows like it did on a day you regret
and suddenly it all rushes back.
And you chase it down your throat
to flush it out and burn another hole in your brain.
I'm always shaking at the hands,
my ankles feel weak,
the moments that I'm proud are growing few and far between
I'm knee deep in ashes in a ravine
beneath a space a bridge once gapped.
I've never been much of a talker, so suffice to say,
my words, they hold a hell of a weight.
And when they get too heavy I take off some pain
and I lay it on somebody I'm gonna miss.
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