quiet my fears with the touch of your hand, paper cut stains from my paper thin plans
if someone is going to take your hand, they better take your hand, scars and all.
My time, my wine, my spirit, my trust
Tryna find a part of me you didn’t take up
Gave you so much, but it wasn’t enough
But I’ll be alright, it’s just a thousand cuts
I’ve gotten a question over and over again that I think has the potential to seriously deteriorate my mental health. The question is, “What will you ever do if you get happy? Like what will you write about? Will you just never be able to write a song again?” It’s an interesting question…