My breath is always shallow.
My thoughts always crumbled.
My feelings, my emotions, never catch a break,
And my tears—they all cry the same.
My body looks its worst, It doesn’t feel loved or cared for.
But I guess that’s my fault, I guess this all is.
My headache, the bags from staying up late—
But I guess that’s my fault too.
Funny, I guess the stress and overload of adult problems
Finally came and settled in.
I guess it’s my fault though,
Not being able to handle it all by myself.
It’s my fault for this headache,
This hangover of a mess.
The alcohol is really my metaphor for stress,
Because my sober soul would never take even a sip.
So I guess it’s my fault for this headache,
The problems are all my fault.
I can’t handle all this.
Ibuprofen doesn’t seem to break the pain.
So I guess I’ll go to bed and sleep it away
The hangover headache caused by living unhappily.
Yeah, but that’s my fault for not smiling.
Guess I chose the wrong time to be honest with myself,
Because everything has built up,
And my breath seems shallower than it ever has been.
It’s my fault though.
I can’t handle the stress of living—
My headache, my mess.