I hate this place, there's no warmth.
You call it home, it's just a house.
Things to eat, a place to sleep,
people that walk around like you're
plain invisible and nonexistent.
I come back with a heavy bag,
a stressed-up life, maybe a fucked-up kind.
And she comes out in pajamas still yawning,
telling me how stressed she's been.
I know, I know, my stress is just comfortable.
My nearing the insanity line is quite the lovely.
I sleep a cold night, cold blankets and pillows.
Waking up to the cold room, atmosphere and walls.
There's nothing to just talk about.
Everything we were, everything we had.
Now all there is, is anger.