Packed and all eyes turned in
No one to see on the quay, no one waving for me
Just the shoreline receding
Ticket in my hand and thinking wish I didn't hand it in
'Cause who said sailing is fine?

Some nights I thirst for real blood, for real knives, for real cries. And then the flash of steel from real guns in real life really fills my mind. Then I really miss what really did exist when I held your throat so tight. And I miss the bus as it swerved from us and almost came crashing to its side. Sometimes the blood from real cuts feels real nice when it's really mine. And if you want it to be real, come over for a night, we can really, really climb, and those blue bridge lights might really burn most bright while we watch that dark lake rise. And if you really want to see what really matters most to me, we can just take a real short drive. Just a drive into the dark stretch, long stretch of night, will really stretch this shaking mind. And this room, unlit, unheated, and the ceiling striped, and the dark black blinds.... I want to know this time if you're really finally mine. I need to know that you're not lying, and so I want to see you tried. And I don't want to hear you say it shouldn't really be this way, because I like this way just fine. And there's nothing quite like the blinding light when that curtain's cast aside, and no attempt is made to explain away the things that really, really, really are b

What gives this mess some grace
Unless it's kicks, man
Unless it's fiction
Unless it's sweat or it's songs
What hits against this chest

It’s just a bad movie where there’s no crying
Handing the keys to me in this Red Lion
Where the lock that you locked in the suite
Says there’s no prying
When the breath that you breathed in the street

I'm coming into your town. Night is falling to the ground, but I can still see where you loved yourself before he tore it all down. April 12th, with nobody else around; you were outside the house (where's your mother?), when he put you in the car, when he took you down the road. And I can still see where it was open, the door he slammed closed. It was open, the door he slammed closed. It was open, long ago. But don't lose me now, don't lose me now. Though I know that I'm not useful anyhow, just let me stick around while I tell you, like before, you should say his name the way that he said yours. But you don't want to say his name anymore. Oh, Cynda Moore. Baby daughter on the road, you're wrapped up warm in daddy's coat. And I can still see the cigarette's heat. I can't believe all that you're telling me, what is cutting like the smoke through your teeth as you're telling me "forget it." But if I could tear his throat, and spill his blood between my jaws, and erase his name for good, don't you know that I would? Don't you realize I wouldn't pause, that I would cut him down with my claws if I could have somehow never let that happen? Or I'd call, some black midnight, fuck up his new life where they don't know what he did, tell his brand-new wife and his second kid. Though I tell you, like before, that you should wreck his life the way that he wrecked yours, you want no part of his life anymore. Oh Cynda Moore, don't lose me now, let me help you out. Though I know that I can't help you anyhow, when I watch you I'm proud. When I tell you twice before that you should wreck his life the way that he wrecked yours, you want no part of his life anymore. Oh Cynda Moore. And it'll never be the way it was before, but I wish that you would let me through that door. Let me through that door, baby.