The sun is burning in the evening, setting twice as high
as she tries her hardest not to cry inside her broken sorrows.
He's coming home, a kiss hello, "what's for dinner?"
It's just like any other day and she can't wait until tomorrow.

Bruised hands hiding underneath the sheets
besides the weakened lungs of servitude.
She could break out, just take the keys,
drive straight into the horizon and wait until the world ends.

Another broken home worth trying to save.
He's a dagger, she's a slave.
No more heartache in the heart of home.
He's the trigger, she's alone.

And maybe some time she will take the time to see
that nothing in her life is the way it's meant to be.
No more scars, no more turning her skin inside out to protect her from the sun.
And as the world prays for a break out, she's staying and holding her head to the sky.
And her eyes close and nobody breathes
as she picks herself up to fall back on her knees.

But she won't break out, she won't take the keys
and drive straight into the horizon to wait until the world ends.

Another broken home worth trying to save.
He's a dagger, she's a slave.
No more heartache in the heart of home.
He's the trigger, she's alone.

Why is utopia only a dream?
Why is this future so hard to believe?
But as long as she promises that she'll behave,
he'll be the dagger and she'll be the slave.