She fears abandonment, his mom abused him.
Love twists into bitter repetition.
There’s always a deeper layer of pain,
a wound beneath the urge to hurt.
Love twists into bitter repetition.
Shit in the bed, a severed finger
show the wounds beneath the urge to hurt,
explain but don’t justify the damage.
Shit in the bed, a severed finger –
no detail too personal or lurid.
The past explains but doesn’t justify the damage.
At least there were no children.
No detail too personal or lurid.
Do any final wisps of love remain?
At least there were no children,
except the inner ones who wrote the script.
Do any final wisps of love remain?
She fears abandonment, his mom abused him.
Inner wounded children wrote their scripts.
There’s always a deeper layer of pain.