| It was me, | |
| that trimmed my teeth | |
| on a bottle of red. | |
| And then I feel the raspberry seed. | |
| How can this be | |
| that I'd fear the ones who would hold me? | |
| And inside fires, under those who would never chase me. | |
| I will recognize | |
| one of these late nights, | |
| all I've left behind. | |
| It was me, | |
| bit the hand that feeds, | |
| and slipped away, | |
| without thought of the bleed. | |
| How can this be | |
| that I'd fear the ones who would hold me? | |
| And inside fires, under those who would never chase me. | |
| I will recognize | |
| one of these late nights, | |
| all I've left behind. |
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