What is wrong with me?
When I sit in my house with the people I love
When I know I’m watched over by God up above
And yet all I can think, when push comes to shove:
I’m alone. I want to go home.
When I can always look up to see
Those dead eyes, staring. Her grip on my wrist.
It persists despite knowing she doesn’t exist.
And to keep myself sane I just need to insist
I won’t be so prone when I’m home.
But nothing is wrong with me.
I’ve been told that it’s fine to hear threats in my head
That it won’t ever end til the day that I’m dead
So I know this fact won’t cease to fill me with dread:
Home’s not real, so I’ll never get home.