It must’ve been cold fish lips
and a slamming door.
I must’ve really missed leaving voicemails
for choice males who couldn’t pick up,
men with smoking habits and nightmares,
dirty socks they couldn’t pick up.
It must’ve been the bruising I was lost without,
the strangulating futures that we talked about
the end of all my freedom that I railed against,
the work to solve a puzzle that just didn’t make sense.
It must’ve been the lying and the screaming quiet,
my therapy bills and my pain pill diet,
the disgust and the sorrow for the way we were.
It took so long to leave that by now I’m sure
it must’ve been cold fish lips
and a slamming door;
they must’ve been the things
that I was cryin’ for.