Laundry Room
My sole possession,
don't leave me again
I left my address in
your back pocket.
Cobain, Cobain, cough
up some blood.
I left my shoes again,
under a witch’s thumb.
I know you’ll go, when
the storm’s blowing,
It’d be a sin to stop you,
butter-fly sunshine.
There’s ink on the floor
There’s blood on the page
There’s bullets in your eyes
There’s smoke in a barrel of wine
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