Lying here bleeding through a half-arsed dressing
Hoping tomorrow I might get hit by a truck.
Who the hell are you meant to tell this shit to.
Who are you meant to call in the middle of the night when it all feels too much, and you know you’ll just need the same words of comfort tomorrow, too.
I’ll make another joke about it that you won’t read into.
And I’ll laugh as I bleed into my sheets, because I’m just that pathetic.
I’ll laugh at the notion that after it ends someone might think twice and learn a warning sign or two.