rewarding title, fighting: what fists are for. curled from disuse, instead whisper in your ear

a sad anywhere
moving sale, made
you slime. i looked
away. nothing's gonna hurt you, baby
i'll probably pull you from my side, dance
around a living room, too silver in the hard way,
when we had our drink and fade away, i'm probably gonna hurt you, baby
*reach into the microphone and save me. look into circles, sunglasses. our songs*