i'd like to believe in one thing that you say to me would 
you like to leave?when i try to talk at all, it all just 
turns out to be turn on the stove in the little tiny 
rooms that our friends call a home my head fills with 
heat from the knife in your hand to mine i'd like to 
understand what you think about, why it seems so bad it's 
only escape from everything i know i'm weak, i know that 
i'm sad turn on the stove in the little tiny rooms that 
our friends call a home my head fills with heat from the 
knife in your hand to my sand