Maybe we could break your ankle, clean and unsuspiciously.
An ER trip, a doctorâs slip,
and you could share your pills with me.
Wonât it feel so good, though, when weâre lying,
side by side, canât move, and Iâm not trying?
2000 milligrams each.
A hotel by the pharmacy with drinking straws in toothpaste tubes.
Stash them with your toiletries and I will share my pills with you.
Little Michael sleeping in the child safety seat,
lying with the windows rolled up, in the August heat.
3000 milligrams each,
4000 milligrams.
Weâre driving down the interstate,
youâre feeling great, you scratch your wrist,
and we pretend your kids, your husband, all you left does not exist.
And in some motel that night weâre lying,
I can barely whisper âitâs like dying.
Baby, do you know what I mean?
Well baby, did you hear me?
Well baby, you fell asleep.â
I know Iâm weak, I won t deny weâll see our trial sometime soon.
But when i know weâre ed,
Iâll halve the pile and share my pills with you.
Cause weâve felt fully in our bodies,
and weâve felt totally alive,
so weâre prepared to float above this
dirty bed where we both lie.
Where we lie, lie, lie. Will we be fine?
Not this time.