Verse Wish I could write songs about anything other than death But I can't go to bed without drawing the red, shaving off breaths; Each one so heavy, each one so cumbersome Each one a lead weight hanging between my lungs Spilling my guts, sweat on a microphone, breaking my voice Whenever I'm alone with you, can't talk but "Isn't this weather nice? Are you okay?" Should I go somewhere else and hide my face? A sprinter learning to wait A marathon runner, my ankles are sprained A marathon runner, my ankles are sprained
Sprained Ankle – Julien Baker
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