Maybe you know who this was to --

Do you know how it feels,
In the top of your chest,
And the back of your throat,
When a friend has confessed,
And at the tip of your tongue,
Nothing tastes too good.
Like a bullet in you head,
She hates you like she should.
And when the bottom of your stomach,
And the cuts on your hand,
And your flesh and your skin together burn,
Like wooded land,
You now know how she's felt,
And you know you've done bad.
And for the first time, yet too late,
You know what you had.
 
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