Cos just like before, "I'm foggy on the inside,"

you spoke in words so sore. . .

I heard the words that were on the tip of your

tongue,

I listened to them curl back to your throat.

It's the hope in me that's got you moving-

"teach them while they're young,"

that's the idea they say-

you could kill joy in yourself,

but why not kill mine instead.

cos I'm rotten to the core.

let me squish on while I roll.

But imagine: I still smell sweet while

I decay-

Cos I was never ripe anyway.