Last I Remember, by Harvest Season
You make me feel like shit.
I wish boobs did the bra thing without having to wear the bra
April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.
Until now, I know we’ve never met,
But I don’t want to talk and I’m already upset,
That you’ll meet your demise in a drunken man’s bed,
Take another pull to make certain you forget.
And to think that you’re somebody’s daughter,
Away at college not getting smarter.
Everything changes when all the lights in the room are as low as you,
But don’t trip you’ll sober up soon,
Regain an honest perspective as you puke on the floor,
Can’t remember why your knees are so cut up and sore.
And you’ll be hung over all day.
^ them feels.