I hate myself on Sundays.

Yesterdays make up is wearing off.

The thought of tomorrow is frightening

But no where near as bad as yesterday.

I'm feeling uneasy and you're the only one I wanna talk to. So I do, I call you.

Why are we always trying to escape ourselves?

Speeding the streets before the world is awake,

We drink, we smoke, we fuck just to get away.

You and I and everyone,

Always trying to outrun ourselves.

What did we do so bad that we can't face it? And,

Will we ever make peace with the past?

Or spend the rest of our lives running?

Some days,

The weight of our secrets weigh me down.

And when I'm fucked up,

You make me better.

You fix me temporarily.

Treat the symptoms but not the disease.

Memories & history.

We're just lost;

We found each other but not ourselves.

At least we're not alone.