Morals, etc.

Tied tight in a clove-hitch
I was waiting for home
You got your hands on my thigh
Your bloodshot eyes
They were wrestling with my collarbone

A blanket of bruises on a bed of clavicle
I’m scrounging for the words
They usually go unheard
And I can’t even feel you at all

And you hit & you miss; you hit & you miss me ‘til I go.
And you push & you pull; you push & you pull me to and fro.

I’m no good with road maps
I keep getting lost; I keep getting lost inside of you
And I’m no good with morals
Cause I keep coming back, I keep coming back, come back to you.