Your head a mess of guilt and blood-soaked bedsheets You left in the dark of morning with your head down You learned the curves of the road like The shape of his subversive body Winter morning on your windshield, running on empty Between whiplash from the weather and your erratic tone I grit my teeth, you talk down to me over the phone It's not the kind of love that feels good But it's one you can't escape from Makes my heart skip beats like car wheels on a gravel road I'm thrashing as glittering waves of orange poppies crest over my head Vultures circle over highway one I come down washed up under cliffs bleached by the sun My body falls apart again In Pasadena, Portland, Oregon, where you dig your holes And watch your life unravel day by day in semi-precious stones They glitter under blacklight and tabs of acid You find yourself alone