I’m so self conscious, even though I know that it’s nonsense.
It’s only part of the process to just mess around.

But I’m gonna hide out and use up my white out;
’till I’m rid of my doubt, you won’t hear a sound.

What am I afraid of?
Is it the blood and guts that I’m made of?
And if I’m laying them all out before you…
and it bores you?

It’s not a remedy to arrange my brains to a melody,
if I guard it so very jealously that it never gets a chance to breathe.

But you don’t need to tell me it’s okay, or maybe you do.
And I don’t want to believe I’m scared of you, but maybe it’s true.
Maybe I don’t want to get past this.
In practice, maybe all I want is an ass-kiss.
But I don’t know.

Or maybe it’s my own brain that makes me just want to be alone,
and keeps me smooth and seamless as a stone,
as you try to break me out in vain.

Well, it’s nauseous.
And I finally decide to just cut my losses.
I pour it out in the sink and turn on the faucets,
until not even a trace remains.