It is called a state of shock
When the word burns
So close to the skin
And time after time against the asphalt
Why scrape a cheek against the walls
Squeeze fingers in doors
When the legs
Always carry back here
To present a pig
It is called a state of shock
When thoughts are felt
And cut like pieces of glass
Small, small cuts under the lining
Why are you like me
Against the walls
Standing hesitantly by the doors
When the legs always shake you back here
To present a pig
And I wish that there was room for everything
And I wish that there was room for everything
And I wish that there was room for everything
To present a pig
And I wish that there was room for everything
And I wish that there was room for everything
And I wish that there was room for everything