Rant, massive rant.

Sunshine, there ain't a thing that you can do that's gonna ruin my night.
(But, there's just something about)
This dizzy dreamer and her bleeding little blue boy.
your fingers like you're done and,
You've decided there is so much more than me.
And baby, honestly it's harder breathing next to you, I shake.
I brought a gun and as the preacher tried to stop me.
Hold my heart it's beating for you anyway.

What if I can't forget you?
I'll burn your name into my throat.
I'll be the fire that'll catch you.
What's so good about picking up the pieces?
None of the colors ever light up anymore in this hole.

Nobody prays for the heartless.
Nobody gives another penny for the selfish.
You're learning how to taste what you kill now.
Don't mind me, I'm just reaching for your necklace.
Talking to my mom about this little girl from Texas.

What if I can't forget you?
I'll burn your name into my throat.
I'll be the fire that'll catch you.
What's so good about picking up the pieces?
None of the colors ever light up anymore in this hole.

Just give her back to me.
You know I can't afford the medicine that feeds what I need.

So, baby, what if I can't forget you?
(What if I can't forget you?)
Collide invisible lips like a shadow on the wall,
And just throw, oh no.
You can't just throw me away.

So, what if I can't forget you?
I'll burn your name into my throat.
I'll be the fire that'll catch you.
What's so good about picking up the pieces?
What if I don't even want to?

Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh.

What if I can't forget you?
I'll burn your name into my throat.
I'll be the fire that'll catch you.
What's so good about picking up the pieces?
None of the colors ever light up anymore in this hole.

Just give her back to me.
You know I can't afford the medicine that feeds what I need.
So, baby, what if I can't forget you?
(What if I can't forget you?)
I'd better learn to live alone.

What's so good about picking up the pieces?
What's so good about? What's so good about?
What's so good about picking up the pieces?
Oh.

I really don't want to, but I know that I have to pick up every piece. All of the broken glass-- I only want the red ones. Perhaps that will make another heart. Too dramatic? I think so too; the heart is dramatic. The desire to be with another is dramatic. Love is tragedy no matter how it is gazed upon. Some it might be pleasant, at least one suffers. In the end, in the end. There can never be anything pleasant without suffering. The floor can never be clean if the glass isn't picked up, even if it cuts your hands. The desire comes to only pick up a single piece. Why bother rebuilding when it will all be destroyed?

Yet here I am, picking up all of the pieces. Red and all.