My fingertips is holding onto the cracks in our fondation
and I know that I should let go, but I can't.
and every time we fight I know that it's not right,
every time you get upset and I smile,
I know I should forget, but I can't.

Your face is pasty 'cause you've gone and got so wasted, what a surprice.
Don't want to look at you face 'cause it's making me sick.