I feel like...
I'm too old for this shit.
I'm never too old for this shit...
I'm sick of this shit.
I'm sick of being your disposable lover
I wish you'd jump off your teeter-totter
And learn to make up your own mind.
I hate
very little.
But my pain
runs deeper yet.
I hate
running, always running.
Running to find you,
running away from you,
running just to hustle.
Would you let,
Let me love you?
No, no is the answer I bet.
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