I'll never say it again unless it's true.
This house was built to crumble over you.
The brick and mortar store fronts, and the churches too.
The room is quiet, so I'm turning on the news.
The weekend wasted warriors are in bed,
nursing bad decisions, holding bottles, clutching heads.
There's someone in a basement probably wishing she was dead,
but the movies make you forget all of that.
"Oh, it's too nice to be inside," I heard her say,
"but the window does just fine when you're away."
and "Every minute feels like one step closer to the door,
and I don't want to live here anymore."
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