The images that fill my head now keep my fingers from making mistakes. Tell my voice what it takes to speak up, speak up, and keep my conscience clean when I wake.
I want you to mean it.
Sorry it's really short. Read the end author's note.
You're dressed to kill, I'm calling you out. (Don't waste your time on me.)
Now there's an aching in my back; a stabbing pain that says I lack, the common sense and confidence,
to bring an end to promises, that I make in times of desperate conversation.
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